


nocturne

by fleuravis



Series: with nothing on my tongue but hallelujah [6]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Blow Jobs, Bullying, Car Sex, Choking, Christmas, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic, Dubious Consent, Family Drama, Finger Sucking, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Indie Music, Jealousy, M/M, Multi, Obsession, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Possessive Behavior, Protective Original Percival Graves, Safewords, School, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Roleplay, Sexual Violence, Sleepy Sex, Spanking, Unhealthy Relationships, University, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-01 06:46:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16279673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleuravis/pseuds/fleuravis
Summary: One year after dropping out, Credence returns to Ilvermorny.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> in case you skipped 'cradle' for the content warning, a lil summary: graves gets too drunk and hurts credence, so cre, newt and tina confront him and he agrees to cut back on drinking. in return, he asks credence to return to school and finish his degree.
> 
> this fic will be updated mondays and fridays! <3

Back before he left Ilvermorny, Credence had one confidant and friend in all of the looming castle of a building. It hadn’t been another student, of course — his peers all kept their distance. He hadn’t been confident or well dressed or mature enough to fit in with the majority of the student body, wealthy and polished and refined, and he wasn’t cool enough to slip in amongst the outcasts, the alternative kids who were let in on talent alone. So he skirted the outer edges, keeping his head down, attending his classes and effectively staying out of everyone’s way. No, his one friend, a mentor and a refuge, had been his professor in a class called Modern Electric Guitar: a rare non-classical course offered as an elective. In his second year of school, Credence had managed to sneak the class into his schedule, telling Ma he had a practice period.

Alastor Moody is an oddity amongst Ilvermorny professors, eccentric and not conforming to the unspoken elitist rules of the academy, walking the halls in his clunky brown boots, grumbling with a cane and a glass eye, wild hair, a filthy mouth. In Moody, Credence found his only source of comfort in that school. Moody is so unlike most of the other professors who had intimidated him with their perfectly pressed suits, their professional tone. Money and condescension. Professor Moody had never given off an air of superiority, never made Credence feel undeserving and small.

He’d been the first to introduce Credence to what lies beyond the conservatory — carting around an eclectic taste in music that ranges from Led Zeppelin to The National, guiding Credence through a wide repertoire of songs and opening his mind to modern music. The stuff of the Devil, according to Ma. Credence felt a secretive pleasure in tucking himself into the old cushioned chair in Moody's office as the man flipped on the record player. An exhilarating sin. 

Moody's course has never been popular, looked down upon by the pretentious and close-minded population of the school, only ever filling up halfway at most with a handful of students from the alternative crowds. Credence was always grateful for this as it gave him an opportunity to reach out in his own timid way, to befriend the strange man at the front of the room. Once they’d cultivated a strong bond, Credence would go there every day after classes had ended and Moody would spend hours teaching him new techniques and new songs, confiding in Credence about his wildly interesting past as a frontman of a rock band called Order of the Phoenix. Moody told Credence stories that made the boy blush, showed him photographs of himself back in what he calls the ‘glory days’.

Besides a faceless academic advisor, Moody is the only person Credence had bothered to tell when he’d dropped out. A simple email, thanking him for their time spent together and sending his apologies for leaving so suddenly. They’d communicated by email regularly throughout Credence’s years at school, back before he had a phone, when his only access to the online world had been the old clunky computers tucked into the corners of the local library.

Now, Credence taps his fingertips nervously on the kitchen counter while he waits, phone pressed to his ear, through four slow rings. He found the phone number in the online Ilvermorny directory and he prays that it isn’t somehow the wrong one. He stares at the vase by the wall, blue orchids blooming, a sweet little gift from Percy when he’d agreed to return to school. 

Just as he’s about to hang up, a familiar gruff voice answers. “‘ello?”

“Professor Moody,” he breathes. Clears his throat. “It’s Credence. Um. Credence Barebone, sir?”

“Credence, you fucker!” Moody exclaims in a booming voice. “The one that got away. How are you, boy? How come you aren’t busy railin' lines and fuckin' groupies right now?”

Credence flushes, chokes. “You haven’t changed, sir.”

“Oh, but _you_ have. I’ve seen the pictures, boy. Finally got away from that mother of yours and grew out the hair!”

“The last time I saw my mother she threw a glass at my head and gave me a concussion,” Credence says wryly, “So you could say that, yeah.”

Moody laughs raucously and Credence loves him for it. No forced sympathy, no awkward avoidance. “Jesus, kid! I miss you. Hasn’t been the same without you here, all these pretentious fucks and their _concertos_ and _metronomes._ ”

“I was actually calling to talk to you about that,” Credence starts nervously, “I’m thinking of coming back for a year, finishing my degree. I don’t know if I can do that though.”

“Are you crazy? You’re famous now! Who needs a fuckin’ degree?” 

Credence laughs. “My… my boyfriend wants me to do it. It’s probably a good idea to have some kind of education, right?” His voice turns doubtful at the end.

“Leave that crazy mother and right away ya got some _boyfriend_ tellin’ ya what to do,” Moody mutters, and Credence can almost see him shaking his head, glass eye rolling. “Listen, kid, you want back in, you’re back in. But don’t blame me when you’re stuck in class with Umbridge writing ten pages about perfect fifths.”

“I'll be dreading it,” Credence agrees. He looks up as the apartment door opens and Percy walks in. “Listen, professor, I’ve gotta go. Should I email an advisor or do you think you can…”

“I’ll talk to ‘em for ya, no problem,” Moody assures him, “I’ll shoot you a message when I hear back. When do you wanna start?”

“I’m ready to come back in September.” Percy is beside him now, lips pressed to the top of his head, hands sliding up Credence’s sides. Toying with him. He pinches Credence’s nipples through his shirt and the boy’s breath hitches. “It’s already almost August though, do you think it’s too late?”

“No, no,” Moody says, sounding amused. Credence prays it’s not because he notices his breathless voice, the shifting of his body on the barstool. “I’ll let y’know, Credence. Good to talk to ya. Hope I see you in the fall.”

“You too, professor.”

The moment he hangs up Percy hauls him out of his seat, throwing him over his shoulder. Credence pummels the older man’s back with his fists, protesting weakly. Percy is so big and strong, it makes Credence blush.

Percy throws him down on the couch and Credence stares up at him, flushed and breathless, eyes wide. “Welcome home.”

Percy grins, shaking his head. “You little fuckin’ minx. Looking at me like that. My little schoolboy.”

Part of Credence thinks that the reason Percy wants him back at the Academy is because of some elaborate fantasy he’s constructed — picking him up from school, watching him do his homework, correcting him. Parent-teacher meetings? Credence shudders. “Yes, daddy.”

“Sickening,” Percy whispers, climbing up over the boy’s body, knees framing his skinny hips. He presses his thumb to Credence’s plump bottom lip, pushes it slowly into his mouth. Credence sucks, closing his eyes, curling his tongue.

“You wear a uniform?” Percy asks with feigned disinterest. 

Credence releases the man’s thumb from his mouth, pulls back, laughing. “No, you pervert.”

“Sorry, I meant you _will_ wear a uniform.” Percy looks at him smugly but affectionately. Cups his cheek with one hand, thumbing over the sharp bone. “I’m proud of you, baby. It would be easy to give up on school now that you’ve got a career going. I think you’re doing a good thing.”

“Thank you,” Credence says softly, “I do miss my professor. He was so nice to me. I wouldn’t have started playing electric without him.”

“Is he hot?” Percy asks casually, and Credence feels a tugging satisfaction at the little display of jealousy. He thinks about Moody’s scraggly hair, his glass eye, his long dirty coat.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, doing his best to keep his face straight. This is something, something he can have. He feels guilty, but one piece of manipulation against Percy's constant advantage is not the worst thing he could do.

Percy smacks him gently on the arm. “You’re mean, puppy.”

“Not as hot as you,” Credence smiles sweetly. “You wanna get dinner?”

And so they do, sitting down in the window table at their favourite Vietnamese diner up the road. They talk the whole while about Ilvermorny, the best and worst of the professors and students, which classes Credence will have to take, whether Percy will drive him or he’ll take the subway (Percy decides he will drive him, ignoring Credence’s objections, saying _I’m not putting you on a fuckin’ subway through Queens and that’s that_ ) and how they can fit recording schedules around his classes. By the end of dinner, Credence has actually started to feel excited about returning to school. How different it will be, now that he isn’t being forced to go, isn’t getting hit for the smallest mistakes, made to answer to his mother. 

How different it will be, now that he’s coming home to Percy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note the updated rating, and take some intense daddy-kink porn with minimal plot!

Credence returns to school in September and the apartment is lonelier than Graves had predicted. He’s lived alone for many years, since turning eighteen, really. He hasn’t told Credence, but he’s never let a lover move in with him before. It always seemed too much like a promise, like closing a door and letting it lock behind him. Now, he’s grown rather addicted to the feeling of coming home to somebody, to sharing the space, making enough food for two, enough coffee for two — well, maybe closer to five or six. Even when they don't speak, even when they don't touch, Credence's presence fills every room like a pleasant haze. Keeping the boy within arm's reach seems vital, where the thought of having somebody so close all the time used to make Graves' insides twist. 

And so Graves finds himself feeling significantly more alone during the long days that Credence attends classes. Only four days a week, Monday through Thursday, and only from nine until five, but still. Graves feels his lack of daily responsibilities start to eat him alive and he almost considers applying for a part time job, which he then laughs himself into hysterics imagining. Never in his twenty seven years of life has he had a real job, and he’s really thinking about it now that he’s got a multi-million dollar record deal? He pictures himself cashing out irritable soccer moms at the drug store or serving coffees at Starbucks and shakes his head. Maybe he's spoiled, but that life was _never_ fuckin' meant for him.

On top of the distinct lack of Credence to fill his days, Graves also hasn’t been drunk since the day he’d promised to cut back — he’s had drinks, of course, he can handle a beer or two without falling off the wagon completely. But when the beginning of the semester knocks him on his ass with loneliness, he starts to daydream about the expensive whiskey he keeps stored in the cabinet, the crystal skull of vodka in a box on top of the fridge, Christ, even the disgusting craft beer Sera had unloaded on him from one of her more short-lived flings. 

_He brewed craft beer and you still fucked him?_ Graves had teased her. She'd just glared at him.  _Shut up and take another box._

Still, it would be ideal to both maintain his general sobriety and keep himself from feeling entirely useless, and so he spends most days in his office space, planning out tours and album designs and answering emails. It took a bit of bullshitting but he managed to convince Langdon to hold off on tour plans until the summer, after Credence graduates in May. An album release in June, a tour starting soon after; Langdon has sent him links to venues and bands to review for the shows. By the time he's done writing a reasonably helpful response, he's got at least thirty tabs open and he can freely say he doesn't want to read another pitch from 'New York's newest indie-folk three-piece' or 'the next  _Deathly Hallows'_. Yeah, cause that's really gonna earn his fuckin' sympathy.

When he can't bear to stare at his email inbox any longer he even replies to some tweets, to his own horror. He usually leaves that shit up to Newt — it’s hard for him not to respond with biting sarcastic remarks or worse when the fans’ comments are in reference to Credence, which they often are.

Credence truly has become an _icon_ , amongst teenagers in particular, though he still turns red at the use of the word and mumbles out his denial. He doesn't even see the half of it, though: he hates social media, hates updating their Twitter and Instagram, and only does the bare minimum to keep Langdon happy. Graves sees it all. Can't help but stare, can't look away from the mangled car wreck of their comments sections. Tina would roll her eyes at him for the analogy, because really, most of the comments are nice enough. Graves just can't help but despise all these people who speculate and offer their unwarranted opinions on Credence, particularly the inner workings of his personal life. It’s no small news when he returns to Ilvermorny and Graves is certain their application numbers skyrocket. He wonders about the boy at school, whether people approach him or simply stare, whether he’s grown confident enough to bear his reputation proudly.

He tries to ask in roundabout ways: “ _Making a lot of friends_?” or “ _Meet anyone new today_?” or “ _Does anyone ask about the band_?”

The boy always just smiles his sweet little smile. “No, not really. I just keep to myself.”

Graves knows he should be encouraging Credence to talk to people more, to befriend his peers, to try and make connections. But he knows none of those pretentious rich fucks could possibly understand him anyway, and besides, he feels stabbing jealousy at the very _thought_ of anybody else making Credence laugh, making his eyes crinkle up the way they do, his one pointy tooth showing in his smile.

The less Graves thinks about it, the better.

In a vile and deplorable part of himself, buried amongst his most base desires, he loves the feeling of picking Credence up from school. The most cliche fuckin’ fantasy, almost more shameful in how _typical_ it is than any sort of taboo it may carry. Though it’s technically a University, the Academy has a striking private-school atmosphere, and it brings back visceral memories of Graves’ own high school experience. The uniforms and all, Catholic straight through the system. He wishes in the depths of his lizard brain that he could see Credence in a school uniform. It’s still enough to get his blood rushing, the sight of the boy emerging from the front doors, smiling when he spots Graves’ car, trotting up to the passenger seat door with his backpack slung over his shoulder. He’s just so fucking _cute,_ it practically gives Graves heartburn.

More than once he's had to pull over on the way home, turning onto a secluded road halfway through their hour commute and parking on the gravelly shoulder, kissing Credence dizzy or pulling the boy’s head down into his lap or, if he’s really feeling like a creep, rubbing him through his pants, speaking soft, coaxing words into his ear until he comes like that, staining his clothes, just like the inexperienced teenager he was when Graves first met him.

_It’s been over a year since then_ , he thinks fondly. 

Graves so selfishly wants to know Credence’s every move, every feeling, every breath. He watches intently as the boy does his homework, wishing he could have known him in high school, elementary school, kindergarten. Imagining Credence’s childhood, how different it must have been from his, or Newt's, or anybody else's for that matter. Bruises hidden under little sweaters. No mittens on the playground. Graves feels close to tears at the thought.

In the evening, he brings Credence a mug of hot chocolate while the boy draws careful notes on a staff, deep into his pages upon pages of music theory homework. Credence looks up and smiles, released from his trance, accepting the cup and leaning up to kiss him. “I’m so sleepy.”

“How many more pages?”

He sighs. “Seven.”

“You’d better finish them,” Graves prompts, “I don’t want you falling behind.”

He sees the boy’s lips quirk up, though he ducks his head to hide it. Finishes filling in a quarter note. Flips the page. Graves puts a hand on the back of his neck, stroking softly.

“If you finish it tonight, I promise you’ll be rewarded generously.”

Credence keeps his eyes on the page, writing intently, but Graves can see his cheeks turning pink. 

“Why don’t you come sit at your desk? It’s more comfortable.” Graves closes Credence’s book, tugs at his arm. The boy follows him into their room, obviously exhausted, staring longingly at their bed. It looks pretty inviting to Graves as well — he may not be in school, but he’s still getting up at seven every morning to drive Credence across the city, forcing himself to either write or go into the office until he has to pick the boy up. But he has a self-imposed responsibility to make sure Credence gets his work done and so he steers him toward the desk, sitting down in the rather luxurious chair and pulling the boy down into his lap. It’s a rocking chair, technically, but Graves had stuck it in front of the desk because Credence fidgets when he works, moves around, and he hadn’t been able to find a rolling chair that’s solid wood and cushioned and comfortable enough for the boy. His boy.

Credence sinks down into his lap with a sigh, opening his book, diving right back into his work. Graves runs his hands slowly up the boy’s chest, clad in a nice black button up, part of the array of new clothes Graves had insisted on buying for him. _School clothes,_ he’d said firmly, ignoring Credence’s protests that he has his own money now, he can buy clothes for himself.

Credence shivers under his touch, trying to lean back further while remaining upright enough to see the page in front of him.

“Concentrate,” Graves chastises, fingers slowly working to undo the buttons on the boy’s shirt, one by one. He untucks it from the waistband of his black chinos, letting it fall open. Runs his hands across the flat belly, the ladder of his ribcage, still brazenly showing its little bumps despite how much Graves tries to feed Credence. He reaches the boy’s nipples, flush-pink and pert, and circles them steadily with his fingertips. Pinching, twisting. Credence mewls, dropping his pencil, and Graves immediately takes his hands away. “Focus, puppy, or I won’t touch you at all.”

Credence shudders, picks up his pencil again. He returns to his work, unsteady hands filling in answers, and Graves moves down between his legs. He’s hard already and spreads wider at the approach of Graves’ hand, squeezing and cupping. 

“Daddy…” He breathes, eyes closing. Graves lifts his hand; hovering, warning. Credence’s eyes flutter open again and he takes a breath, doing his best to keep working.

Graves plays with him until he can feel a damp spot soaking through the boy’s pants. Credence gets wet like a fucking girl. Graves is growing hard as well, pressing into the boy’s ass, and he knows Credence can feel it. He rolls his hips up and hears the sharp intake of breath that follows.

Slowly and carefully he unbuttons Credence's pants, pulls them down over his ass, leaves them bunched up at his knees. Considers for a moment and then does the same with his underwear, leaving him open and exposed, hard cock leaking against his belly. Graves feels greedy at the sight.

“Such a bad boy,” he murmurs, wrapping a hand loosely around the boy, pulling in long, light strokes. Not enough to get him off, just enough to hint at the feeling, to make him want it even more. “Should be focusing on your work.”

“I’m trying,” Credence whimpers, “Daddy, I am…”

God, this kid’s gonna drive him fucking crazy. He keeps stroking, tightening his grip just barely, feeling Credence tense and shiver on top of him. He keeps writing in his booklet, though his handwriting is steadily becoming sloppier. 

“I— I’m gonna—"

He drops his pencil. It clatters against the desk, rolling dangerously close to the edge. Graves lets go of Credence's cock. The boy breathes out a low moan, desperate. “Don’t… why’d you…”

“Finish your work,” Graves says firmly, “I told you what the deal is.”

Credence lets out a long-suffering sigh and takes his pencil in hand again, turning the page. Only four left. He can do it, of course he can, but Graves is certainly going to make it as difficult for him as possible.  Three more times he brings Credence to the edge only to stop cold when the boy drops his pencil or closes his eyes or pauses in his writing. Each time he whines and begs and squirms in his lap but Graves holds him still, calm and firm, unrelenting.

It becomes too much, even for him, and he reaches under Credence’s ass, unzips his own pants, releases his painfully hard cock. He dips two fingers inside of the boy, who’s still open and slightly slick from being fingered earlier in the evening. He’s insatiable though, and from the way he’s whimpering and twisting in Graves’ hands now you’d think he hadn’t been fucked in weeks.

“Calm down,” Graves says in amazement. “Baby, relax.”

“Sorry,” Credence says softly, breath hitching when Graves brushes against his prostate. He reaches into the desk drawer, uncapping a bottle of lube and coating himself generously. Credence is digging his teeth into his bottom lip in anticipation, trying to keep working, to make sure Graves doesn’t stop. The power is intoxicating. 

Graves lifts Credence’s hips and gently lowers him onto his cock. The breath rushes out of the boy in one go and Graves mouths at his neck, licking and sucking, hand still working Credence’s weeping cock. He’s impressed; he doesn’t think the boy has ever held off for this long, though it’s not entirely up to him. He’s positively shaking now, desperate and needy, and Graves braces his feet on the ground and begins rocking the chair, back and forth, driving his cock slowly into Credence with each swaying movement.

“Please, Daddy,” Credence sobs, hand faltering. Graves stills. Squeezes the base of Credence’s cock. Hard. The boy keens. “I need to cum, _please._ ”

“You need to finish your work,” Graves tells him, and it’s a miracle how well he can control his voice with his dick buried deep in the boy’s tight, contracting ass. “You can cum when you’ve finished, that’s the deal.”

He’s on the last page, the stubborn boy, it wouldn’t be that difficult to just scribble down the answers and be done. But his sweet little martyr, a victim of his own making, he just can’t let it be easy for himself. He keeps writing, struggling as Graves angles himself carefully to press against the boy’s prostate on every upstroke. By the time he finishes the page Credence is a mess, crying and babbling and leaning back against Graves’ chest, grinding his ass down on the man’s cock, begging him with a stream of _harderdaddypleaseI’mgonnacumIwannacumplease—_

Graves drives in hard, presses his fingernail into the slit of Credence’s cock and the boy comes violently, shooting out rope after rope, gasping out the sweetest sounds, body spasming and squeezing around Graves. He finishes deep inside the boy, fucking him through it, biting down hard on his pale shoulder. It takes Credence longer than usual to settle down, breathing hard, finally tipping his head back against Graves’ chest.

“That felt so good,” he breathes, and Graves takes a moment to marvel at the unabashed words, the fearless admission of pleasure from the boy who used to be so terrified to ask for what he wanted, who used to fall into blushing insecurity right after he came.

“Good,” he replies, kissing gently over the spot where he’d just dug his teeth in, a red ring already standing out stark against the white stretch of skin. “That homework better be perfect.”

“Or what, you’ll spank me?” The cheeky words make him laugh, shaking his head, pressing more kisses to the boy’s bony shoulder.

“I should, with that attitude. C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up."

Credence hobbles over to the bathroom, not quite walking straight, wincing at what Graves can infer is the sharp sting, the slow drip of cum leaking out of him. It makes Graves’ head feel light.

“Did you talk to Langdon about the recording sessions?” Credence asks, tone perfectly conversational, sitting on the countertop as Graves wipes cum off of his fluttering belly with a warm washcloth.

“Yeah, I called him today,” Graves murmurs, maneuvering Credence around so he can gently run the towel between his legs. The boy hisses softly. Graves apologizes and sets him back down on the counter, standing between his thighs, hands on his face. “He’s saying recording sessions just after New Years, so we have a bit of a break until then. What is it, December second? Third?”

“Eleventh!” Credence crows, smacking him on the arm. “Look at you, laying around all the time, don’t even know what day it is.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Graves sighs, “I’ve been working on some demos. Planning things out.  Langdon said he can schedule all our recording Friday through Sunday for about five weeks straight. It’s gonna be a lot, baby, on top of all your schoolwork.”

Credence shrugs. “I can bring my homework to the studio. I’m in school for music, this is practically extra credit.” He hops down from the counter. “You wanna hear my favourite one?”

Credence’s classical acoustic guitar, purchased (to Graves’ distaste) with the boy’s own money, hangs on the wall by the living room window. He takes it down and perches on the couch, Graves' billowing button-up resting loosely on his shoulders, his hair falling into his eyes. “It’s Chopin. I've always loved his compositions but he didn’t write much for guitar and it’s hard to translate the piano pieces over. This one’s my favourite though, so I’ve been working on transcribing it. I’ve only got the first page or so.”

He takes a breath, straightens himself.

In the rare moments that Graves sees Credence practicing classical, his breath is always drawn straight out of him. The boy seems to prefer keeping it private, rehearsing at school and doing his written work at home. But if he’s working on something particularly challenging, or is simply bored on the weekend, Graves will sometimes walk into the apartment to find him on the couch, bent over in concentration, fingers darting quickly but gracefully along the frets, lips parted, eyes closed. It’s a vision. Sometimes, in all the flurry of the press and photoshoots and industry bullshit, he manages to forget how simply _talented_ Credence is.

He begins slowly, dark and lilting chords, filling the silent room with warmth. And then his fingers slide up higher, little trills and ornaments, a beautiful melody ringing out beneath his hands. He looks enamoured by the music he’s producing, holding his breath, limber fingers moving like little dancers along the fretboard. And then he slips, stumbles, swears quietly. The trance is broken and he looks up with a sheepish grin. “I need to practice more.”

“It sounds beautiful,” Graves says truthfully, “Is that for your final recital?”

He nods. “God, why am I nervous for that? We played a show in front of thousands of people. This is just a stupid recital for everyone’s parents.”

“It’s not stupid,” Graves chides, “And I’m very excited to be there. As your parent.”

Credence flushes, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re too much.”

  
Graves cracks a can of soup for dinner and then burns it on the stove, swearing at the smoking pot and throwing it in the sink before grabbing his phone and ordering takeout, Credence laughing at him all the while. They curl up on the couch with their cheap boxed noodles, Graves pointedly pretending not to notice when Credence repeatedly drops them down his front, still not entirely proficient with chopsticks.  _Fight Club_ is playing on the shiny flatscreen on the wall and Graves playfully wraps a hand around Credence's throat as they cuddle up after dinner, squeezing 'til the boy squirms and then kissing all over his breathless pink face. 

"More," he murmurs, turning his face into Graves' chest. "I like it."

Graves chuckles, giving him another quick squeeze before letting go and drawing his hand up into soft, dark curls. "I think we need a safe word, puppy."

"Mm, I trust you," Credence sighs. 

"I know you do. But either way."

Credence blinks up at him. "For real?"

"For real," Graves agrees, "Just in case. And if it's any incentive, that way I can take it further without worrying too much. And you'll have a way out."

"Hm. How much further?" Credence sounds more interested now and Graves laughs quietly.

"I don't want to hurt you, baby. It freaks me out sometimes that you never tell me to stop."

"Sorry," Credence says quietly, and continues even as Graves shushes him. "I just. I think sometimes about you, you know, being rough with me or... or hitting me, because I was so used to it from Ma, and it's not that I  _liked_ it,  not from her, but I just… it’s always been out of my control, and I love you, and I need you to… I mean, you don’t have to, not if you don’t want to—”

“Credence,” Graves interrupts his babbling. “It’s okay. You don’t have to justify anything. I understand.”

“You do?” Credence says, relieved.

“Yes, puppy.” Graves pets his hair, a slow soothing motion that lulls Credence's frantic, racing mind.  "I’m happy to give you whatever you think you need. I just get worried. That's why I want you to have a word, just in case it gets to be too much."

"Orchid," Credence whispers, and Graves follows his gaze over to the kitchen counter, where the blue orchid blooms brightly, casting a watery reflection on its glass vase. It was a last-minute gift, purchased on a whim as he hurried home from Jacob's bakery early one morning, a little surprise for his baby to wake up to. An  _I'm so proud of you_ gift. An  _I'm sorry, and thank you for always forgiving me_ gift. Credence was so appreciative, nearly falling into tears at what had seemed to Graves like a token, and it made him think that maybe he could bear to try a little harder.

"Okay, sweetheart," Graves says, "Orchid."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this is the piece credence plays for percy in the last chapter - i found a version on guitar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c8X2jyoW0Fg)

December 21st is the last day of classes at Ilvermorny before Christmas holidays. Credence is early. Traffic is light this morning; nobody wants to drive around in the first snowfall. Credence has his nose nearly pressed to the cool window, smudging the glass, but Percy won't mind. Credence loves the snow. When they pull up out front, Percy sends him on his way with a kiss and the big size of Starbucks peppermint hot chocolate, biggest size, the one with crushed candy canes in the whipped cream and a snowflake pattern on the cup. Credence wants to sit in the car with Percy until it's time to scramble down the hall to Professor Umbridge’s morning theory class, he can slide into his seat with seconds to spare, it doesn't matter...

“It’s your last day,” Percy reminds him, nudging him toward the door. “C’mon, we’ll have plenty of time to ourselves over the break.”

Credence has been counting down to the holidays for weeks now. Percy had offered to book a tropical vacation, to scoop Credence away in an airplane so they can spend Christmas on a white-sand beach somewhere secluded and warm. As much as the idea of sex on the beach and a remote vacation house is exciting, Credence had nervously confided in Percy that he likes the snow, that he's never really _had_ a Christmas before, and maybe could they go away another time? He'd barely finished his sentence before Percy was engulfing him in a hug, kissing the top of his head.  _Of course, puppy. Of course, I'll give you the most magical Christmas your cute little fuckin' head could ever dream up._

So they plan to have dinner on Christmas Eve with Tina, Newt, and his brother Theseus, who’s in town for the holiday, and to head out to the suburbs of Woodcliff Lake on Christmas Day to spend the evening with Percy's parents. 

_ The magic might end at that point, _  Percy had grumbled after finally escaping a long phone call with his mother,  _I'll make it up to you._

Credence is nervous, terrified really, because he’s never met Percy’s parents and he’s — well, _him._ Fumbling and awkward, quiet and dumb. Percy's parents are practically celebrities in the world of lawyers, wealthy and intelligent and of high reputation, the stark opposite of himself and his family. 

Family. He feels a nagging guilt at the thought of Modesty spending another Christmas in that church. He'll give her a lavish and beautiful Christmas every year as soon as he can get her out of that place. As many presents as he can fit under a wide and shiny tree, decked out with tinsel, sparkling like stage lights. When she’s old enough to take care of herself he’ll buy her an apartment, pay for everything. At least one use for the excess money he’s being handed. Far more than he knows what to do with.

Credence slips into Umbridge’s room fifteen minutes before class is set to begin. He’s third to arrive if you don’t count Umbridge herself, sitting prim and proper at her desk, writing in a daybook. She doesn't look up when he enters the room. He takes his seat in the back row and pulls out his homework from his backpack, smoothing it out on his desk. Another twelve pages of music theory that she’d assigned — the woman does not believe in the concept of a break; he’s certain she’ll assign extra over Christmas.

He’s right, of course, and he leaves the class with a thick stack of pages and instructions for an opinion essay on the difference between _diminuendo_ and _decrescendo_. Is there even a difference? He’ll have to look it up.

He dreams his way through his Music History class, chin on his hand, thinking about a Christmas tree and stockings and endless mugs of hot chocolate, fed to him straight from Percy's hands. He has to turn his face downwards, pretend to be engrossed in the textbook page when he starts thinking about Percy wiping a little bead of the drink from his lip, which turns into thinking about Percy pushing his thumb into Credence's eager mouth, which turns into thinking about... 

Credence digs his fingers into his thigh and tries to focus on the infographic on Romantic era composers. He draws a clumsy little heart around _Chopin_ , tucked in between Beethoven and Brahms. His hand slips, cutting a jagged line up the page as somebody bumps into him. His eyes shoot up, face flushing. He slams the book closed. The room is loud and everyone is moving. The bell must have rung for lunch; he was too lost in thought to hear it. The girl is small and slender, blonde hair swept back in a high ponytail. Her smile is bright but not very kind. "Oh! Sorry." The look on her face is impish. He's burning red, now. A beacon. As if he wasn't already drawing enough unwanted attention.  _Stupid._

“It’s okay,” he mumbles, trying to slip out of her way. She steps smoothly in front of him.

"You like Chopin?"

He glances up. Her eyes are shining, and there's a secret buried somewhere in her sea-dark irises. He can hear a giggle from behind her — her friends. Must be some kind of dare.

"Yeah," he manages, tucking his books into his bag and looking everywhere but her eyes, that gaze so sharp it sets him on edge. "He's my favourite composer."

"I  _love_ Chopin." She sounds pretty earnest, and he figures she must know something about composers if she's here. "He's a genius. I know everybody hypes up the nocturnes but his preludes..." She sighs. Smiles at him again. "Just brilliant."

"I like his nocturnes," he ventures. His nervous grimace turns up in what's likely an awkward smirk, but he tries not to think about it too much. "I'm transcribing Opus 9, Number 2 to guitar. It's interesting, the way it translates, you'd never think—"

"Oh," she interrupts him, grinning knowingly back at her friend, "Cool."

"...yeah." He trails off, feeling stupid again. 

"Can I take a picture with you?"

"What?" He looks up, a little alarmed.

"A picture," she repeats slowly, like she's talking to someone half-deaf or mentally impaired. "Of me and you."

"Why?"

That shrill giggle again. Her friend's hand, cupped over her mouth. Peering up at him from under dark spider-leg lashes.

"I have to go." He throws his bag over his shoulder and hurries out of the room. He can hear them laughing in his wake.  _What, is he slow or something?_   _I don't know, did you see how he looked at me when I asked? Shit, I told her I'd get a picture..._

He’s been good so far, really good, ignoring the staring and the whispering, the bright phone flash when they take pictures, the phony apologies when they bump into him in hallways, as if that's the way to start a conversation. He knows he's weird, and he's quiet, and he was never popular before, but it seems like any other famous person could come here and they wouldn't treat them so strangely. If Queenie ever came back they'd all try to befriend her, they'd sit with her at lunch and strike up real conversations...

He pushes the thoughts away. As if he even wants to talk to any of them. These are not his people, not his counterparts. They may try to slip into his life now, only interested when he's no longer a nobody. He has money now, influence even — though the thought seems ridiculous to him  —  but he will never be the way that they are.

It's still snowing when Credence steps outside onto the front terrace of Ilvermorny. There's a cafe down the road, a steamy little alcove of a place, exposed brick and plants lining the windowsills, and it's his favourite place to go during lunch. Nobody else ever goes there; Ilvermorny boasts a diverse and gourmet selection of food in its cavernous cafeteria. Credence delights in his lunch hours spent hidden away in the corner of Stella's with a book or his sheet music. Stella has taken to refilling his mug for free, asking about school and Percy and the band's new music, bringing him samples of whatever new pastry she's adding to the menu. 

On his way down the steps, around the corner of the looming building, Credence stops, smiling up at the sky, feeling the cold snowflakes melt against his face. He squints at the sun, sighing in place. He knows he won't start his schoolwork today. Maybe he'll try to read another few pages of his book,  _The Catcher in the Rye,_ which Percy gave to him with an almost sheepish look.

_ It's kind of typical, but I love it. _

So Credence eats it right up.

Maybe he'll try to finish the song he's been writing. Or maybe he'll just sit and watch the snow through the window, and sip his drink, and talk to Stella about Christmas and what she's going to give to her daughter  — a _double whammy_ , she always calls it, born on Christmas day. Twelve years old this year. Credence thinks of Modesty and his heart aches.

All at once he’s torn from his reverie. His knees hit cold slushy pavement, hands shooting out to brace his fall against the concrete. Tiny stones dig into his palms.

“Oh, _sorry!_ ” 

He recognizes that voice. Distantly, vaguely. The sun is in his eyes and he has to squint hard when he looks up, bracing himself on one unsteady arm so he can shield his eyes, one hand cupped against his brow. It's Vince Crabbe, a nasty boy two years older but a year behind him. He remembers Vince his earlier days at Ilvermorny. A goon, a real barbarian, a stone's throw away from suspension at all times. Back-talking and locker-punching. The teachers all hate him, but they love the donation his obnoxiously wealthy father shelled over in exchange for Vince's admission. He's got no talent, no kindness, no ambition — lacking in pretty much everything but cruelty. They must be in the same year now, unless Vince has been failing classes. Credence wouldn't be surprised. His best friend Greg is by his side, equally as stupid, if not more so. 

It was easy to stay out of their way back when he was nobody. Not that his status means a thing to them now; all it does is throw him into the spotlight of their vague interest, always looking to up their capacity for violence, to test the limits of the walls that hold them here. They don’t really care for music; art bores them. They're in this place for the image and the image alone, like maybe they'll seem a little less like uninteresting jackasses if they have a degree from this place. Money is a nonissue. They're all set for life; they've got a one way ticket to wherever they want to go, thanks to a distant but generous father and an endless ability to intimidate.

Credence clambers to his feet, his knees aching from the hard fall, palms stinging with a million little pinpricks. He has to get out of here, and he has to get out fast.

“No worries,” he mutters. Tries to duck away but suddenly there's a thick, denim-clad calf stepping in front of him and he narrowly avoids tripping over it. Vince.

“How’s your gay band, faggot?” He sneers.

It takes all of Credence’s strength to keep from rolling his eyes. _Really? That’s the best he can come up with?_ He should pull out his phone, show the buffoon the hoards of YouTube trolls commenting on Macusa’s videos. Give him some new material. The _faggot_ motif is getting old.

“Really good, actually,” he responds, trying to dodge the boys and get to the sidewalk. They block him again. 

“We saw the picture.”

That stops Credence in his tracks. He feels his face drain; his mouth goes sour. He swallows hard, bile and acid. Vince and Greg catch his expression and look gleefully brutish. 

“Too bad we didn’t save it,” Vince continues, stupidly throwing away a chance at blackmail for the sake of getting in one petty insult. “It was too foul to look at. Almost made me puke.”

“Word’s got around you’re a hooker on the side cause they don’t pay you enough,” Greg chimes in, then touches his chin in mock-consideration. “Or was it gay porn? Something like that.”

“I get paid plenty,” Credence says, and it was meant to be a retort but it comes weak. Pitiful. He thinks about Percy, who's probably at home right now, or maybe in his office. He holds the image in his mind as he rears to turn, to try to get away, and then suddenly he’s knocked backwards. He barely feels the fist connecting with his face. He sees it happen like he's watching from a distance, hit twice right below the eye, cheek so sharp it could cut a man, Percy always says.  _One-two. A double whammy. Birthday on Christmas_. Credence is stunned, stars sparkling in front of his eyes, vision blooming into a watery mirage. He can hear laughter, far off and wicked, and he stumbles, trying to right himself, and then he’s punched again, hard, in the stomach. _Three. Four. Merry Christmas, baby. Happy birthday, puppy._ Credence doubles over, choking, spitting up down his front. He can barely hear what they’re saying, vicious words that blur into nothing, and they’re hitting him again and again, merciless, and then they're gone and he's on the ground. Motionless. Still.

He lays there for what could be minutes, hours. His back pressed into the concrete, ice and dirt, coat soaked through. The snow falls gentle and slow on his face, melting on his pink-hot skin. His belly aches in that raw, cold way, the wind knocked out of him. He’s been hit before. This is nothing new. Used to get hit all the time, so much it was like going to sleep. Just a fact of his every day. There’s just a bit of a difference between a belt at the hands of a middle aged woman and two sadistic men in their twenties, the prime of their physical capability for assault.

Credence blinks away a snowflake and thinks about Percy. Maybe he's eating lunch. Maybe he's just getting out of the shower. He wonders absently if someone will find him like this, on his back behind the building, blanketed in snow. He wonders if they’ll think that he’s dead, maybe just at first, from a distance.

Today is Ilvermorny's Christmas meal. Nobody will come outside. And if they did, they would probably just crouch down next to him and ask to take a photograph.

So he picks himself up slowly, legs shaking. His head pounds fast and erratic, his brain knocking around loose inside his skull. He can’t see very well through his left eye, which is swollen shut. Bruised peach. He spits out blood into the white snow in front of him. They didn’t knock out any teeth; he’s thankful for that.

His fingers are so cold it hurts to dial Percy's number. It hurts for other reasons, too: Credence doesn’t want to worry him. He also doesn’t want to deal with the consequences of Percy's worrying, which are often violent and disproportionate. He can’t go back to class like this, though. Can’t even go back into the building. It’ll be up on every music news site by five o’clock — _Credence Barebone, Certified Baby, Beat Up by School Bullies._

Graves answers on the second ring. He always does.

“Hey, baby, what’s up?”

“Are you at home?” Credence keeps his voice steady. He winces as he inspects his palms, scraped and bleeding, little bits of rock and gravel stuck in the soft pads of pink flesh.

“No, I’m just having lunch at Cara Mia. Why, what’s going on?”

Credence feels his tension uncoil.  _Thank God, he’s close by._

“Can you come pick me up?” His voice breaks at the end. There’s a split second of silence, and it rings in Credence's ears like the moment after a song ends.

“I’m on my way.”

 

Credence waits on a bench in the park across the street. It’s quiet, and he only has to duck his head a couple times when the odd person strolls by. Nobody pays him any mind. His pants are ripped at the knees. He wants to cry. They’re his nice ones, the ones that Percy had insisted on buying for him after he nearly fucked him in the dressing room, making him turn around and bend over to show off the way they cling to his legs and ass, whistling low, Credence blushing all the while. They were expensive, of course they were — Percy slid his credit card across the counter with a smile. _It's worth it_ , he'd said,  _if I get to take them off of you._

Credence picks at the frayed edge, the place where his knee pokes out. He digs a finger into the tender spot beneath the bone and flinches. Bruised, that's for sure. He must look like a crime scene.

It only takes Percy ten minutes to get there and he pulls up with a muted _screech._ Credence all but runs to the car, feeling very much like a child, breathless when he slips into the passenger seat. He doesn’t look at Percy. Just hears the sharp intake of breath.

“Credence.”

He keeps his head down.

“Credence, look at me.”

He can’t help himself, can't stem his compulsion to follow Percy's orders. He tips his head up until their eyes meet.

“I’m okay,” he says. It's shaky. Unconvincing. “Really.”

“I want names, Credence,” Percy says, anger rising up hot in his voice, ramming his fists against the steering wheel, “I want names, I want to know who they are and where I can find them because I am going to fucking _murder_ whoever—“

“Please,” Credence whispers, the tears finally coming, overflowing, making his shoulders shake. “Just take me home.”

 

——

 

In the warm yellow light of the bathroom, Percy sits Credence up on the countertop. Credence braves a glance in the mirror, taking in his rapidly blackening eye, swollen half shut, the cut on his lip, blood caked on his chin. He can’t say he’s looked worse in his life.

Percy leaves for a moment and comes back with a bag of ice wrapped in a tea towel, pressing it to Credence’s eye. “Hold that there,” he murmurs. Credence obeys and Percy starts to carefully wipe the blood off of his chin and lip with a warm, damp cloth.

“I’ll get you some Advil,” Percy says, lifting his chin and gently nudging his hand away to get a closer look at his eye. “Fuck, Cre, that’s not gonna fade fast.”

“Hello, Mr and Mrs Graves, I’m your son’s boyfriend from the fight club,” Credence smirks, pressing the ice back up to his eye. “You any good with makeup?”

“Not at all,” Percy sighs, “I can ask Sera.”

He rummages through the cupboard for Advil. Credence gulps down water with the two gel cap pills, his throat suddenly sandpaper-dry and aching.

“Anything else hurt?” Percy runs his hands down Credence's arms, his sides, his skinny legs.

“Pretty much everything,” Credence says wryly, “Nothing's broken. Just bruised.”

Percy leans back, looking at him expectantly. “You gonna tell me who did this?”

Credence shakes his head. “Just some assholes from school. Typical bullies. It’s fine.”

“Credence, this is _assault_ ,” Percy says incredulously, “Not _bullying_. Besides, you’re at a fuckin’ prestigious music academy, not middle school. Who the fuck _bullies_ , really?”

“I don’t want to cause any more trouble.”

“You didn’t cause trouble, puppy, they did. Just tell me who they are, I’ll…”

“You’ll what, murder them?” Credence raises his eyebrows. “Percy, I have four months left there. I’ll do my best to avoid them. It’ll only make it harder for me if you cause a scene.”

Percy gives in, grumbling the whole time, the threats streaming out steadily under his breath. _If Credence would let him, he'd kill those fucking kids, he'd roll right up in his fuckin' car and run them down, he'd pin their arms and let Credence get a few shots in..._

And that’s precisely why Credence _won’t_ allow him. His threats aren’t empty. Not when it comes to his boy.

That little thought is something warm and soft that Credence clings to. He protests Percy’s threats of violence and revenge, but he secretly delights in them. Thinks about Percy showing up at Ilvermorny, marching right into the building with his combat boots that make him walk _loud_ , that tell everyone he's entering the room. Walking right up to Vince and Greg and knocking them out in one go, because Percy _could,_ because he's so strong. Scooping Credence up and taking him home, where he's protected, where he doesn't have to worry about anything. No matter what’s out there, he’ll be safe under the warm spotlight of Percy’s love, for as long as the man will keep him there.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is some... good stuff and also some bad stuff
> 
> be forewarned that this gets a lil violent and creepy!!

By Christmas, Credence’s black eye has faded to a watercolour bloom of lilac and green, a garden of bruises circling his dark and sparkling eye, only just peeking through the makeup Graves cakes on him while Sera instructs him over the tinny phone line.

“Make sure you blend the concealer out,” she orders, “and don’t _rub_ the powder in. Dab it overtop.”

They’ve been at it for nearly an hour. Graves is doing his best, but he’s really starting to wonder how some people can do this every _day._ He doesn’t think he ever wants to match foundation shades or _dab_  face powder again. He’s holding Credence’s jaw with one hand, the other stroking a soft brush just above his cheekbone. The boy’s nose twitches when the brush tickles him but Credence is still smiling serenely. “You should do this for a living.”

Graves rolls his eyes and steps back to survey his work. “Not bad, actually,” he admits. He grabs the phone from the counter, flips off speaker-phone and presses it to his ear. “Alright, Sera, thanks. Hopefully this works.”

This is a practice run for Christmas day, dinner at his parents’ house, an event that seems to be driving poor Credence out of his mind with anxiety. Graves can see it in his face, in the jittery movements of his body any time he brings it up. Credence is so easy to read; he wears every feeling on his sleeve like a patchwork quilt of disjointed emotions. Poor baby. Graves wants to tell him he has nothing to worry about, that it’ll be _fun_ and they’ll all get along, but with his father he can never be sure.

He pulls a damp makeup wipe from the package he bought at Sephora for twenty dollars. Kind of ridiculous, he thinks, but Sera had been at his heels blathering on about _irritants_ and _phthalates_ and _pH balances_ , and he really didn’t have it in him to put up a fight. He wipes Credence’s face, careful not to press too hard around his bruised eye. The boy just blinks at him, so sweet and soft, and Graves can’t decide if he’s more inclined to hug him or to murder whoever had the nerve to lay their dirty fucking hands on him.

Credence still won’t give him names and it’s driving him insane.

“There you go,” Graves murmurs, “All clean. So fresh. You smell like a baby.” He leans in and kisses the boy’s forehead, feels Credence bow against him. Graves’ lips brush against the silvery scar that still runs jagged down the side of his face. Another in the catalogue of injustices inflicted upon him, a vast index of little aches, of every kick he's gotten when he's already down. Graves wants to lay him out, bare and vulnerable, and run his hands over every place where he hurts, where he hurt before, where he will continue to hurt. He wants Credence to guide his tour along the planes of his body, telling him, _here is the scar from when a boy at school broke my arm, here is the place where my mother hit me too hard, here are the broken parts, here are the parts that healed, but not quite right…_ Every spot where the skin doesn’t run smooth, where the blood cells beneath have been broken one too many times. Every discoloration, every bone that healed crooked, every ridge and rivet and scrape. To create an archive, an inventory of _Credence,_ to itemize every part of him until Graves can make sense of it all.

Instead, he just holds him close and says, “God, you’ve got a collection.” 

“Mm.” Credence leans into his body.

“I’m gonna go pick up a couple things for dinner tonight. Is there anything you need?”

“Tina likes those multigrain tortilla chips,” Credence informs him, “And can you get more hot chocolate mix? I think we’re out.”

They’re headed to Tina and Newt’s for a small Christmas Eve party in a few hours. Graves is pretty useless in a kitchen of any capacity, and he knows Queenie and Jacob refuse to let anybody else cook at these things, but he still feels awkward showing up empty handed. He kisses Credence again and grabs his coat. “How about you go for a walk? You should get out of the apartment for a bit.”

Credence grumbles about the cold, squishing up his face between hands buried in sweater sleeves, but eventually he says he will. It is freezing, but there’s no snow yet, and Graves is ready to sell his soul to whoever wants it just to get some tomorrow morning. Credence says it doesn’t matter but Graves _knows_ how desperately he wants a real Christmas. That's what has Graves out here under the guise of picking up snacks for dinner. Of _course_ he knows Tina likes those multigrain chips — he’s only bought them for band practice for what, ten years straight? And of course he has more hot chocolate mix tucked away in the cabinet — as if he couldn’t when it practically runs through Credence’s veins.

No, the real purpose behind this trip is absurd and ridiculous and has Graves' lips tugged up in a permanent, foolish grin. It's something that the old Percival Graves wouldn’t even consider. The kind of true-love bullshit that he used to scoff at back when he was a non-committal and unavailable piece of shit. Things have changed, that’s for sure, because his heart is warm when he parks in the market lot a few streets over and steps out of the car.

 

——

 

It's nearly an hour later when Graves gets back, and he rushes out of the car, praying to whatever God exists that Credence isn't home yet. With the help of a neighbour and an endless muttered stream of curses, he manages to drag the tree inside.

It’s small, as far as Christmas trees go, small enough to fit comfortably in the corner of the living room. But it’s still a Christmas tree, it’s still full and round and stands straight up, about five feet tall. He’d spent at least half an hour trying to pick out the best one possible with no missing branches, no straggly ends. He knows Credence would be happy no matter what. He knows he could drag a Charlie Brown tree up here, dead and withering and small, and the boy would still love it with the entirety of his precious little heart. But he’s gonna give Credence a Christmas, a real Christmas, one to make up for twenty years without presents and lights and, Graves thinks miserably,  _love._

Just as he’s opening the trunk of his car to get the big cardboard box of decorations, he sees Credence emerging down the street, a paper cup from Jacob’s cafe clutched in his hand, a book tucked under his arm. He trots up, breath coming out in little puffs like smoke in the cold air.

“What’s that?”

“Just stuff for tonight,” Graves lies easily; the flaps of the box are woven tightly shut. 

Credence gives him a weird look but holds the door for him as they go inside. He steps into the apartment first and stops in his tracks, staring. Graves ducks his head to hide the smile that’s threatening to take over his entire face. After a long moment Credence turns back, teary-eyed. “You got that for me?”

“Of course I did,” Graves says softly, setting down the box and pulling Credence tight against him. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

“I always wanted a Christmas tree,” the boy’s voice is muffled in Graves’ coat. “Can we decorate it?”

Graves extracts himself and throws open the box. He hadn’t known exactly what to buy so he’d kind of bought everything. Way too many ornaments to fit on the small tree, shiny and glittery and colourful, silvery tinsel made up of tiny aluminum foil stars, several boxes of little white lights. And a star for the top, of course.

It takes them much longer than it should to decorate the tree, because they keep taking breaks to make out on the couch and drink whiskey-spiked peppermint hot chocolate (which Credence allows, saying _it’s Christmas_ with a sweet smile. He then adds: _If you get wasted, I’m locking you in the bathroom all night._ ) By the time they’re finished it’s five thirty and they have to scramble to get ready for the night.

 

There are more people at Tina and Newt’s than Graves had expected. Everyone crowds around Credence when they arrive, demanding to know what happened to his face, peering at the bruises and looking horrified. Graves starts to wish they’d left the makeup on for tonight, too. Queenie has a hand on Credence’s cheek, tilting his face up, inspecting his eye. Newt is shaking his head in anger at Credence’s dismissal of _oh, just some assholes at school. You know._

They let it drop, though, and Graves can tell they’re trying not to let their concern show. Credence looks more than a little uncomfortable, clinging to his arm and keeping his head down.

Theseus is in town for the holiday and he greets Graves with a long, lingering hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Already drunk, These?” Graves claps him on the back, grinning.

“Get on my level, Graves!”

Graves shakes his head. “Trying to cut back. You know me.”

Credence pokes him in the side. “Go ahead, Percy. It’s okay.”

“Don’t wanna end up like Christmas in 2008, huh?” Theseus is laughing and Graves awkwardly laughs along, avoiding Credence’s questioning gaze. _Fuck._ He’s made enough mistakes since meeting the kid, he doesn’t need any previous ones brought up now. Yeah, drinking is not a new vice for him, and there are a lot of nights he doesn’t want to think about. Christmas in 2008 is only one of many.

Graves steers Credence away to go say hello to everybody else. Sera’s in the living room with her nameless boyfriend, yet another unfortunate soul in the long line of men who admire her, follow her like a dog, and then are cast aside when she gets bored. Queenie and Jacob are laughing in the kitchen, Jacob pulling a tray of cupcakes out of the oven. They beckon Credence over to help them decorate with colourful icing and little golden sprinkles. 

A couple of Tina’s friends from high school are together by the window, girls Graves vaguely knows but can’t keep their names straight. _Lavender, Pansy… Daisy? God, who fuckin’ knows. Why are they all named after flowers?_ They stand around awkwardly, sipping fruity cocktails, most likely elaborating an escape plan.

The buzzer rings and Graves wonders who the hell else could be coming. Credence perks up, glancing quickly at Newt, who nods with a smile and presses the button to let them in. A few moments later there’s a knock on the door and Credence opens it, revealing a striking boy with white blond hair standing beside a girl with wide, feline eyes, staring sharply around the room, smooth face surrounded by a halo of ink-black hair. They look like they just walked straight out of of one of the bands beside Macusa in all those indie rock magazines.

“Um.” Credence turns to the room, gesturing awkwardly. “These are my friends, Draco and Mal. And this is everyone.” He steps back to let them in. “I’m just decorating cupcakes. Can I get you guys a drink?”

“Your fuckin’ face!” Draco exclaims, taking Credence’s face in his pale hands, long fingers on tipsy-pink cheeks. “Someone throw another glass at you?”

Everyone else goes back to chattering over the Christmas music, still playing loudly in the background, and Credence leads his friends into the kitchen, talking and laughing the whole way. Graves catches him on his way to the bathroom, grips his arm. 

“You didn’t tell me you were inviting them,” he murmurs, close to Credence’s ear.

Credence shakes him off with a nervous smile. “Did you not want me to?”

“Just didn’t consider it.” Graves tries to keep his tone from being terse. He knows this unexpected jealousy is completely unfair, but he can't stop it from burning in his throat like cinnamon whiskey. One too many shots straight to his overbearing, possessive heart. Fuck. “Should I go introduce myself?”

“If you want,” Credence says, and then steps away into the bathroom.

Graves heads into the kitchen, gripping his beer. Draco and Mal are there, looking a little uneasy, talking quietly. Graves holds out his hand and does his best to give them a welcoming smile.

“I’m Percival. Credence’s… boyfriend, I guess. Partner. You know.”

“Oh, we heard quite a bit about you,” Draco says, eyes dancing, shaking his hand. Graves feels decidedly put off. 

“I’m Mal,” the girl interjects, offering her hand, “We really love Credence. It’s nice to meet you.” She tilts her head, considering him. “What happened to his face?”

Whether or not it’s intentional, it comes off as an accusation. Graves clenches his jaw. “Some kids at school jumped him after class. I tried to talk him into pressing charges but he doesn’t want to. He’s okay.”

“He’s too nice,” Draco says, shaking his head. “You should go to the cops.”

_Please, Draco, tell me more about what I should do for Credence, whom I’ve been living with for over a year, whom you spent half a day with. Because you know better than I do._

“I don’t want to do anything Credence doesn’t want me to do.”

Mal smiles tightly. “Of course not.”

_Luckily for everybody trapped in this painful interaction, Newt bounds up and asks them if they want to join in a game of Catchphrase. At least it isn’t Monopoly._ The two glance at each other and then back to Newt, nodding. They seem to silently consult on every question, every option, like they have some kind of telepathic connection. They must have been together for quite some time.

Newt rounds everybody up to start the game in the living room. Queenie and Jacob stay behind the counter in the kitchen, working on dinner. 

“There in spirit!” Queenie calls out, “I’m on Teenie’s team. Unless she’s losing.”

Graves watches Credence interact with Draco and Mal with a sort of detached curiosity. He seems happy. Graves should be happy, too, but somewhere deep in his stomach there’s a gnawing feeling of indignation. It’s Christmas. Credence should be by _his_ side, in his arms, with him. Only with him.

He shakes it off. 

They eat dinner from plastic plates in the living room — pasta and salad and bread, roasted vegetables and dessert served on the side. Jacob looks proud. Graves wonders if there are any additional ingredients in these cupcakes. 

He’s on his third beer, after several cups of whiskey and hot chocolate earlier in the day, and feeling pleasantly woozy. Credence is drunk too, so Graves thinks it’s okay. The boy is giggling and pink-faced, joking with his friends, reminiscing with Newt about their shopping trips on tour. Graves stays quiet, watching him intently, warmth flooding his heart. God, the kid is a fucking miracle. Truly.

“Present time!” Queenie declares, dragging an enormous box out from behind the couch. She has gifts for everyone — including an expensive-looking watch for Graves and an entire outfit for Credence.

“Queenie, you shouldn’t have,” Newt reprimands, holding up his colourfully printed suit jacket, perfect for onstage. “You’re too kind.”

Tina shoots him a sly look and Newt sets the jacket down, clearing his throat. “Actually, um. Tina and I have something we want to tell you all.” He reaches over and takes her hand. They grin at each other.

“We’re getting married!” She squeals.

Queenie shrieks, drops the box she was holding and launches at Tina, tackling her on the couch. “Oh, Tina, oh how _wonderful_!”

The room falls into a roar of congratulations and excitement. Theseus is wasted and overjoyed, squeezing Newt’s face in his hands. Credence looks close to tears when he hugs Tina. Graves, in his drunken stupor, stares at the boy and considers proposing right then and there.

When everybody is finished weeping and hugging and waxing poetic, they settle by the tree with mugs of coffee. The buzzer rings and Newt gets up.

“We have a few more people coming,” he admits. “Thought we’d have you all for dinner and then make it a bit more of a party later on.”

And it's a party indeed — at least thirty more people show up in the following fifteen minutes and suddenly the apartment is packed, the music cheerful and loud, drinks passed out everywhere. Tina and Newt are at the centre of a swarm of people who’ve just heard the news. Graves backs away, letting them hold their little press conference, and finds Credence by the door saying goodbye to his friends.

“Leaving so soon?” Graves asks.

“Thank you for having us,” Mal smiles. “We really appreciate it.”

Credence and Draco are off to the side, speaking quietly, seriously. Hands on each other’s forearms as if they just came out of a hug but froze midway through letting go. Credence is nodding, smiling sweetly. They hug again and then the two are gone.

“They seem nice,” Graves offers, “Pretty quiet.”

“I’m glad you got to meet them,” Credence says, sounding rather distant. “They were really helpful when... you know.”

_What, Credence, when you ran away?_

He doesn’t say it. Instead, he takes Credence by the arm and pulls him into a dark bedroom, locking the door behind them. Credence lets himself be pressed up against the wall, kissed slowly. Deeply. His tongue tastes like chocolate. He makes muffled sounds into Graves' mouth, pushing his hips up, gripping Graves’ shirt. He’s always so needy when he’s drunk, falling into desperation the moment he's touched. Graves rubs a hand absently over the boy’s hardening length through his pants and Credence sighs into his mouth, rocking into the palm pressed flat against him. 

“How long have Draco and Mal been together?”

Credence laughs quietly. “They aren’t. I thought they were, too, at first, but… no, they aren’t.”

Something in his tone makes Graves’ heart skip. “More to the story, then?” He pauses. “Draco seems to really like you.”

Credence’s eyes open. “What d’you mean?” He’s drunk. Hooded lids, spit-shiny lips. Swaying in place.

“Dunno. Just seems like it.”

Credence’s lip is twitching. “When I was there at the hostel, me and Draco, we…”

That’s all it takes. Graves has him flipped on his back in five seconds, thrown to the ground beneath him, arched against the soft rug on the floor. Credence winces. Graves grips his jaw. “You _what._ ” His entire body has gone cold. He can’t hear the music anymore. He can’t hear anything except the boy’s soft breathing. The ringing of blood in his ears.

“We just kissed,” Credence says quietly, “That’s it, mostly, I…”

“ _Credence_ ,” Graves says sharply. He lifts the boy’s head and strikes it back down against the floor. Credence whines, trying to twist out of his grip, but his dick is hard and straining against his pants. He can’t hide from what he wants. The way he aches to disclose his sins, to be absolved at Graves’ hands. The way his eyes go glossy and desperate. He needs this, and Graves will give it to him. “Tell me what happened.”

“We were just playing a game,” Credence whimpers, “We… we got high first.”

Graves’ head is spinning. Credence got _high_? Without him? “And then what.”

“Um.” Credence shifts, trying to urge Graves’ hand off of his jaw, but Graves just grips tighter. Feels the bones of Credence’s face, sharp and solid in his fingers, though they could crumble under Graves’ fury. “And then we. We kissed. But then Mal left and we kept kissing and…”

“Did it feel good?”

“What?” Credence voice is laced with terror, but he’s still rocking his hips into the hand Graves keeps pressed against him.

“Did it feel good,” he repeats, “Did it feel good to kiss him? Did it make you hard?” He squeezes Credence’s dick with a punishing grip, feeling the boy flinch, hands scrabbling against the floor.

“Yes,” Credence sobs, “Please, Percy, can you please let go, hurts, I—”

Graves squeezes harder for a second but lets go, gripping the boy’s hip instead. “What did you do then? Did you cum in your pants like a fucking baby?”

Credence moans, hips lurching. “No, daddy, I didn’t cum, I swear, I...”

“What did he do?” Graves demands. The hand on Credence’s jaw moves up to the his hair, grabs a handful of his soft curls and shakes his head hard. Until his mouth falls open, until his eyes roll back. Spit dripping from the corner of his lip. “ _Tell me_.”

“He touched my… my dick,” Credence says, breathless, “Through my pants. And then he pushed my shirt up and kissed me and licked me.”

“Fuck.” Graves is painfully hard. He lowers his hips onto the boy’s, pitching forward, rubbing their clothed lengths together.

“ _Daddyplease_ ,” Credence says, whisper soft, drooling, face covered in his own spit now. Drunk and sinful and divine.

“What happened next.”

“He asked if he could fuck me, but I… I said no. And then I stopped, I swear I did, we didn’t do anything else.” His voice is pleading. Eyes searching. Waiting for Graves to tell him it’s okay, that he’s good, that he didn’t do anything wrong.

Graves stares at him for a moment and then stands, yanking him upright by one skinny arm. Credence stumbles, nearly toppling right back over, but Graves throws him hard against the wall. His head knocks into the exposed brick next to the window. Graves feels vaguely worried. Vaguely. Credence is stunned for a moment, gazing at him through half-open eyes, lips parted, looking like he's either about to cum or pass out. Graves pushes a thumb between his plush lips to let the boy suck enthusiastically for a few seconds. Then his hand moves down to Credence's throat and presses hard, watching curiously as the breath slowly leaves him, draining out as his eyes gloss over. His other hand slips under the waistband of Credence’s pants, rubbing firmly through his underwear. It’s damp with sweat and precum.

“You wanna cum, puppy? Is that what you want?” Graves tilts his head. “Is that what will make you happy?”

Credence whimpers, nodding shakily, barely clinging to enough air to make a sound. Graves knows how hard he can squeeze, how far he can push without making the boy black out. He keeps it under control. But Credence doesn’t know that, and so he teeters on the edge, trying to simultaneously squirm out of Graves’ grip and rock into it.

Just as Graves feels Credence tighten, start to shake, he pulls his hand out of his pants, the other gripping his jaw and forcing his mouth open. Credence stares at him, panicked. Graves spits in the boy’s open mouth and slaps him hard across the face. “You don’t cum,” he snarls. 

Credence sinks to the floor, staring up at him with wide, reverent eyes, glazed over with desire.

Graves shakes his head, turns away. “Pull yourself together, Credence.”

And then he steps out of the room, closing the door quietly behind himself, back into the swarm of dancing and drinking and drivelling people.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter count went up a lil bit!

Credence sits on the bedroom floor for seventeen minutes and thirty-two seconds. He watches the ticking clock on the wall across from where he’s sprawled, legs shaking, beneath the window. It’s dark; Percy didn’t turn the light on.

He can hear the music, the dull roar of voices just outside the closed door. His breathing has finally slowed down but he can still hear it, whistling through his throat, tight from the bruising grip Percy had maintained against his neck. Everything hurts but his body feels very far away. He’s still hard. He doesn’t touch himself. Percy told him not to, so he _won’t._

There’s a tingling feeling in the back of his head — not so much pain as a strange numbness. He hopes in a vague way that it isn’t serious. He doesn’t think he really cares. Twice, Percy had grasped his face and knocked his head against the floor, the wall, hard and remorseless. Like a child with a broken toy. Like Credence was running too slowly. Percy has always been impatient. 

He's still lightheaded, his vision blurry at the edges. He sees double when he blinks too fast.  When Percy grabbed him by the hair and shook his head, cruel and vicious, he’d felt like his brain was bouncing around in his skull. Drooling uncontrollably, eyes not quite seeing straight. He felt dizzy and unbalanced, after.

_I’m drunk_ , he tells himself. _Just drunk. That’s all._

Credence gets up, finally, and limps over to the small ensuite bathroom. In the harsh lighting his face looks even worse, his eye a muddled rainbow mess of bruising. There’s a brand new ring of deep red marks around his throat. He unfolds the turtleneck of his sweater, tugging it up to cover the evidence. The floor is cold, even through his pants, as he sits down on the shiny blue tiles. At some point he crawls over to the toilet and throws up. Then he collapses back against the wall, wiping his mouth shakily on the sleeve of his sweater. He still feels dizzy. It takes another ten minutes before he can get up and splash some water on his face. He wants to cry but he doesn’t.

He loves Percy _so much._

He wants to walk out into the living room and tell the man he’ll marry him, right here and right now, in front of everyone. Wants to bare his bruises and his scars for everyone to see, his loyalty immortalized like tattoos across his skin. Wants to write his undying love across the sky, to tell the entire world, not leave a single soul guessing. 

Who else could give this to him? Who else could know him?

Credence dries his face and flips off the light. Takes a slow breath in and opens the door back into the living room. Nobody notices him come out; the place is still packed and noisy. He wanders slowly through the room, feeling a bit like he’s dreaming. Everything feels strange and watery, not quite real. Someone is touching his arm. Newt.

“I thought you were sleeping, Credence! Do you want a drink?”

“No,” his voice sounds airy and far away. “No, thank you.”

He spots Percy across the room, sitting on the couch, talking to Theseus. They’re sitting close, paying no mind to the rest of the room. Credence imagines a bubble around them and feels vaguely hurt. He drifts over, sits down on the Percy’s lap. 

“Hi.” He smiles, kisses his cheek. Drapes himself across the man’s body. Theseus raises his eyebrows. Credence resists the urge to give him a haughty look in return. _Mine. Only mine._

Percy rests a palm on the small of Credence’s back, rubbing slow circles. “Hello, you. Feeling okay?”

He nods, rests his head on Percy’s shoulder, face in the crook of his neck. The two go back to talking, essentially ignoring his presence. Credence whispers against Percy’s ear, so soft it’s barely audible: “Take me home and fuck me, daddy.”

The hand on his back stills.

“We’d better get going,” Percy says slowly — to Theseus or to him, he isn’t sure.

“Oh, so soon?” There’s disappointment on the perfect, modelesque face. He wears it gracefully, but Credence still feels smug.

“Credence is tired. I have to get him home. We’re having dinner with my parents tomorrow.”

“So good to see you, Perce.” They stand, Percy leaving Credence to stumble gracelessly off of his lap. Theseus pulls him in for a hug, long and intimate. “Really. I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too. I’ll call.”

Percy guides Credence to the door with a hand on his elbow, bidding goodbyes along the way to Tina, Newt, Queenie and Jacob. Out in the silent hallway, Credence leans on Percy as they walk. Neither say anything. Credence tries to match their breathing.

The night is calm and bitter-cold. Still no snow.

They don’t speak even when they’ve reached the apartment, even as Percy shuts the door behind them and brings Credence into the bedroom, even as he slowly undresses the boy and holds him close against his body. He’s shivering, though it isn’t very cold.

Finally, Percy breaks the silence.

“Credence, if I ever go too far…”

Credence buries his face into Percy’s warm chest, a few strands of hair peeking out through the V of his shirt, unbuttoned at the top. He nods jerkily. He doesn’t need Percy to finish his sentence.

“Did I go too far?”

He pauses. Shakes his head.

_Never,_ he wants to say, _You could never go too far. I will take anything you give me. Please, spit in my mouth again, let me drink it. Taste you. Please hold me down, please shake me until my brain is scrambled, until I can’t think, until I don’t have to. It felt so good._

“Good.” Percy kisses the top of his head. “I was worried I gave you another concussion.”

Credence laughs quietly. “You might have. Or maybe I’m just drunk.” He looks away, twisting his hands together. “I have to go brush my teeth.”

“Did you get sick?” Percy looks worried. He grabs Credence’s jaw to try and smell his breath. Credence bats him away, ducking out of his grasp.

“Just a little.”

He avoids Percy’s eyes as he slips into the bathroom and rinses out his mouth, brushes his teeth, washes his face again for good measure. He scrubs at his skin until it’s clean and pink, little bits of soap sticking around the edges of his face.

When he returns, Percy is undressed and in bed, waiting to wrap him tight in his arms. Credence’s skin buzzes at the contact, still on fire from being denied, nerve endings frayed where they were cut. Now, both of them in only their underwear, pressed so closely together, Credence feels himself winding up again. Squeezes his legs tighter around Percy’s thigh, feels himself getting hard.

“Not tonight.” Percy’s voice is gentle but firm. “You have to learn to control yourself, Credence.”

Credence whines in frustration. “But it’s Christmas.”

Percy chuckles. “Christmas is tomorrow. Go to sleep.”

Credence burrows in close, sighs, tries to get comfortable. After a moment he rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “Did something happen between you and Theseus?”

The hesitation tells him everything he needs to know.

“Yeah,” Percy says finally, “We were… lovers? For a while. It wasn’t serious.”

“Oh.” Credence feels very small.

Percy pulls him back in, close to his body. Credence can feel the older man’s slow heartbeat in half-time with his own. “Baby, don’t be like that. It was a long time ago. Before I ever knew you. And it was never like this.”

“You guys were talking a lot tonight.” 

Why is he doing this? So stupid. He feels like a child, juvenile and pathetic. Acting out, letting his pitiful jealousy be a burden on Percy, who’s lived such a life already. So much more than him.

“I haven’t seen him in a while. He used to be in our band, you know. He was our guitarist before he moved away.”

“Ah. So I’m the understudy.”

“ _Cre-_ dence.” The way Percy says his name makes him want to die a little bit.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, folding himself up in Percy’s arms. “I don’t know why I said that.”

Percy rubs his back, reassuring, and Credence wishes he could sink down into the mattress and never be seen again. “It’s okay, puppy. But you don’t have to worry.” He pinches the boy’s side, teasing. “Hey, you’re the one who cheated on _me_.”

“I didn’t cheat on you!” Credence says indignantly, “We were… well. I guess?”

“Oh, you little slut.” Percy tips his chin up with one finger, kisses him, soft and sticky. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Credence’s blood is bubbling, fizzling, so awake and alive. He wants to be pressed down into the bed, firm and unyielding, to be held in place and not allowed to move. He wants Percy above him, all around him, inside him. Wants him to hold Credence by the hair and fuck him into the mattress, slam him face first into the headboard, knock him out. That’s the only way he could sleep happily right now.

_I really shouldn’t drink_ , he thinks to himself as he finally drifts off.

 

——

 

Everything is red and warm and glossy. Dripping sweetness, candy-soaked spit, the taste of strawberry and sugar in his mouth. Fruit juice everywhere, tacky on his skin. He’s suspended, floating in a thick sort of pleasure, sweaty and needy, everything _burning burning burning._

Credence wakes up slowly to a dull sting in his ass, a slow pressure, lips on the back of his neck, his shoulder, a wet hand moving steadily against his cock. It takes him a moment to register what’s happening, to get it in his head:  _I'm being fucked._

His eyelids flutter open and he hisses out a breath as Percy pushes impossibly deep. He’s so big; it amazes Credence that he fits inside without splitting him in two. Credence is on his side, little spoon, curled into Percy’s body. Percy has one hand on Credence’s hip, keeping him in place, pushing into him rhythmically. Their bodies stick together with sweat.

“Daddy,” he breathes. Graves kisses his back.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

Credence moans as Percy angles himself, driving into his prostate again and again. He’s still aching from last night, from being pushed to his limits, testing the depths of his own perversions and then cruelly, heartlessly, not being allowed to come. He needs it now, the way he needs to breathe, the air knocked out of him with each thrust.

He thinks about Percy staying quiet and gentle as he opened Credence up, making sure he stayed asleep. Maneuvering his body, fingering him open until he could fit himself aside. The idea of it makes him shudder. Who knows how long Percy has been playing with him. But he’s on the edge now, rocking into the hand that’s wrapped around him, craving release but at the same time never wanting this to end. This suspended bliss, like he’s locked into that hazy sweetness that comes the moment you wake from a wet dream.

“Please.” His voice is still strained and scratchy from last night.

“Yes,” Percy tells him. “Yes.”

He comes and it’s like an explosion of light, his entire body momentarily consumed in flames, Percy letting out a sound of amazement at the sheer amount his body produces. All over his hand, over Credence’s own belly, his chest, the bedsheets. Rope after rope. He trembles and gasps.

Percy continues to fuck into him, so slowly and tenderly, each bump against his prostate feeling like a brief death within himself. He prays Percy will finish soon because he’s too sensitive, too exposed. He does, a moment later, coming deep inside of him, clutching his hip.

He stays inside Credence, even when he softens.

“Merry Christmas, baby.”

“Merry Christmas.” Credence stays still, not wanting Percy to slip out. Wanting to hold him there forever, not let him leave. He does eventually, of course, carefully pulling out and shushing Credence’s whimper at the sudden emptiness.

They stay in bed a while longer but it’s Percy, surprisingly, who makes them get up. “C’mon, I’ll make pancakes.” He walks lazily the dresser by the window, stretching his arms as he goes, and pulls a box out of the top drawer. “But before that, first present.”

Inside are two pairs of soft flannel pyjamas, matching in their plaid pattern, one black and red and the other deep blue and grey. Credence squeals in delight when they check themselves out in the mirror, looking cozy and adorable. 

“We should match all our outfits,” he teases, undoing the top button on Percy’s pyjama shirt.

Percy makes breakfast first so they can eat in the living room while they open presents. Blueberryfor himself, a large mug of black coffee on the side. Chocolate chip for Credence, who sits cross legged on the armchair next to the tree, staring dreamily out the window. It’s snowing.

They take their time unwrapping presents. Credence is embarrassed at the sheer number of colourful foil-wrapped boxes stacked up under the tree with his name on them. A fully tailored suit ( _for any boring business meetings we have to go to_ ); four brand new, expensive guitar pedals: a harmonizer, a reverb and two different choruses; several sweaters; more socks than Credence could ever possibly need. Six new books to add to the pile he’s trying to read. He’s sufficiently overwhelmed by the time he gets to the last box, large and wrapped in shiny red foil, snowflake patterned. 

He takes his time unwrapping it, revealing a shiny black wooden box, sturdy and closed with a golden latch. He looks to Percy for instruction.

“Go ahead,” he urges.

Credence unlatches the box and opens it.

The toys are sleek and expensive looking, nothing like the colourful rubber things he’s seen online and in the windows of shops, the ones that make him blush and turn away. Now he can’t take his eyes off of the array of items arranged neatly in the box: a metal plug, shining silver, a red gemstone sparkling at the base; a fancy looking glass bottle of lubricant; something small and black and bullet-shaped tucked in with what looks like a remote control; a black metal ring; a pair of handcuffs; several long satin-y ribbons; a blindfold; and in the middle of it all… a thin, black leather collar with a metal loop at the front centre, _P.G._ etched in gold on the back. 

Credence’s breath leaves his body all at once. His eyes are wide, his hands unsteady as he carefully picks up the collar, inspecting it, turning it over in his hands. He looks up at Percy. “For me.”

“For you,” he agrees softly, “All of it.”

Credence swallows. “Can you put it on?”

He lifts the hair where it falls gently against the nape of his neck and Percy loops the collar around him, securing it with the strap, tight enough that he can feel it but not enough to restrict his breath. Slips a finger between the leather and the skin to test it. He kisses Credence’s shoulder, turns him around and tugs lightly on the metal loop, grinning when Credence stumbles forward. “You like it?”

“I love it.” He’s breathless, head spinning. _I love it. I love you. Take me to bed. Keep me forever. Please, please, please. I will wear it until the day that I die._

He doesn’t say the words out loud. “I have one more gift for you.”

Credence’s gifts have mostly been small. He has more money now, from the magazines features and interviews and royalties on their new single, but still not enough to fund the luxurious catalogue of gifts he would like to be able to give. He picked out small things that he knew Percy would love: books, records, socks and scarves, vintage tee shirts he’d scoured every thrift shop for. This last one, though, is the one that matters.

He braces himself, getting his Telecaster down from where it hangs on the living room wall. Plugs it into his amp, flicks it on. Where he used to rely solely on whatever reverb and delay knobs were on the amps he’d borrow on a show-to-show basis, now he has an expansive board of pedals offering any effect he could possibly dream of. He’s got them all rigged up, reverb and chorus and harmony and delay, perfectly set for what he’s about to play. He sits in the soft armchair next to the Christmas tree and looks up at Percy, who’s sat across from him on the couch.

He doesn’t say a word. He just takes a breath and begins playing.

Simple chords, a basic fingerpicked pattern, but the effects make the notes soar into a dreamscape of colour and light. He could _see_ it when he was writing it, the shades of purple and blue floating in midair before him, eyes closed to write the colours rather than the notes themselves. He’s never been this nervous in his life. When he starts to sing he closes his eyes, ready to lose his nerve if he has to look at Percy.

He started writing this song the day after they returned from the first tour. It was as if the lyrics had been formulating themselves for weeks, though. It had spilled out of him so quickly while he struggled to get each line down in his notebook, words coming too fast for his mind to process, for his hand to move. He’s never been very good with words. Never been able to speak the way he’d like to. As a child he would stutter; now he hesitates. He has never been a good reader. He tries his best but it’s just _hard._ When he writes he’s usually terrified that it sounds stupid. This is the first time he’s been able to put his heart into words, to let Percy know how he feels in a tangible way, through words rather than melodies alone.

When he finishes the song, he opens his eyes. Percy is kneeling before him, silent, eyes rimmed with red and tears sliding down his face in slow procession. He stares up, reverential. Devout. Credence’s breath slips away.

“Credence,” he whispers.

Credence nods, feeling his own eyes begin to well up, unable to look away, not wanting to blink and miss even a single second in the spotlight of Percy’s adoration.

Finally Percy breaks their gaze, resting his forehead against Credence’s knee. Credence thinks of how silly they would look to anybody else in their matching flannel pyjamas, sleep-mussed hair, the black collar standing out against his pale throat. Plates of half-eaten pancakes on the floor beside them. Credence sets the guitar aside.

“Merry Christmas, Percy.”

Percy looks up again and stands, pulling Credence up into his arms, holding him like a baby. Kissing his nose again and again. “I love you so much. So much.”

He sits back down on the couch, Credence’s head in his lap. He runs his hands tenderly over the already fading red bruises on the boy’s throat, peeking out from under his collar. “These are mine.”

Credence nods, staring up at him. “I like them better than the ones on my face.”

Percy smiles. “Good. Won’t last as long, though.”

_I wish they would,_ Credence thinks, _I wish I could show them to everybody. I wish they would never fade. I wish they would stay forever._

“We should do my makeup,” he says instead. “Before we go see Modesty.”

It’s a dangerous plan that they’ve concocted, and Credence’s stomach is already in knots thinking about it. Modesty won’t be in school, obviously, so they can’t sneak her out of her classroom before she goes home like they’ve done so many times before. She’ll be at the church, at Christmas mass, but Credence won’t be able to live with himself if he doesn’t see her today. He couldn’t buy her any wild and extravagant gifts the way he’d longed to — a full new wardrobe, a sparkly pink backpack instead of the drab and worn-out grey one, a bike, maybe, a DVD player and a television and all the cartoons he could find.

_Someday,_ he tells himself, _someday._

Instead, in his palm he clutches a tiny wooden bird, something he’d found in a handcrafted shop in Brooklyn. Small and smooth, hidden in his hand, unassuming enough that Ma will never notice it. But it reminds him of Modesty, and she can keep it to remind her of him in the times that he can’t see her. 

 

As they approach the church, Credence can hear the choir even through the window of Percy’s car, even through the heavy wooden doors. He chews on his lip and tastes blood when he accidentally re-opens the scabbed split. Percy squeezes his arm.

“It’ll be okay.”  


The church door opens then and Percy quickly turns the corner so they aren’t stalled directly out front. From the small side street they watch the crowds emerge, cheerful and dressed to the nines, a small stampede of shiny boots flattening the new snow. Credence glances in the side mirror. His skin looks a yellow from the makeup, dusty grey underneath from the bruises. In the unveiling sunlight it's more noticeable. He hopes Modesty won’t worry.

He spots her then, standing dutifully in the doorway and saying goodbye to all the churchgoers as they exit. Her eyes keep scanning the crowds as if she’s looking for him, too. She’s got her nice clothes on, church clothes, the only luxury Ma allows. A sandy brown wool coat, a grey cap pulled over her hair. It’s getting so long. He prays Ma won’t chop it off.

“Should I—” Credence feels strikingly uncertain now. He keeps his eyes peeled for Ma, but she’s nowhere to be seen. After Christmas mass she usually has plenty of people to talk to inside, which is why she sends one of them out to bid goodbye at the doors. This could be his only chance.

“Go,” Percy urges, “I’ll be right here.”

He nods jerkily and almost tumbles out of the door, steadying himself, clumsy feet on icy gravel. He gives Percy a self-conscious smile and a wave and then stuffs his hands in his coat pockets, keeping his head down as he walk up the steps. His breath comes out like smoke in the frosty air.  


“Credence!” Modesty catches herself, sliding into a quick decrescendo after the first syllable. Her eyes dart around the steps and her voice lowers to a whisper. “What are you doing here?”

He moves so he’s out of sight of the doors, crouching down in the corner beside the wide doorway. “I wanted to see you,” he tells her, “and I’ve got a present for you.”

Her eyes go star-bright. “Credence! I miss you.”

“I know, bug, I’ve been so busy. I can’t come see you after school anymore because I have to be at my school until five o’clock.”

“Maybe now that you’re at Ilvermorny again you can come back home!” Her voice is so excited, so earnest that he feels his heart cracking in half. “Mama won’t be mad anymore, maybe she’ll let you live with us, and—”

“I don’t want to live here, Modesty.” His voice is shaking. _Don’t cry. You have to be the adult now. For once in your life, don’t cry._ “I have a life now, I have a career and a boyfriend that loves me and a home that I feel good in. I don’t want to live with Ma. I don’t want you to live with her, either, and as soon as you’re old enough I’ll get you out of here. I wish I could have gotten you more presents but you know she’d be angry.”

Modesty looks stricken. He knows it’s hard for her to hear that no matter what happens, he isn’t coming back. She’s been holding onto this tiny thread of hope, stretched impossibly taut across the year he’s been gone, and he’s singlehandedly just snapped it. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the little bird.

“I’m sorry, bug.” He presses it into her hands, pink and dry with the cold. He should have brought her some mittens.

She looks up at him, wide-eyed. “I don’t have a present for you, Credence.”

“It’s okay,” he tells her, and then he pulls her in, hugging her tight against his body, burying his face in her hair. It smells good, like flowery shampoo, and he bites back his tears. “I love you, Modesty. Merry Christmas.”

“Come back soon, Credence,” she says softly. “Please.”

“I will,” he whispers, “I will.”

Before Ma can come out and see them, he kisses her quickly on the top of the head and then hurries down the steps, back into Percy’s car. Breathing hard. “Fuck. _Fuck._ ”

Percy looks alarmed. Credence has probably cursed less than five times in the year that they’ve been together. “What happened?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s fine. I just feel awful for leaving, sometimes. Even though I know it was my only option.”

The car pulls off the curb and skates slowly down the side street to the main road behind the church. “I’m sorry,” Percy says. “But I’m glad you got to see her.”

Credence nods. “Yeah, me too.” He gives Percy a small smile. “One family down, one to go. At least yours will be a little less complicated.”

Percy laughs. “Don’t speak too soon. You haven’t met my father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [come talk to me on tumblr!](http://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd love to hear all your thoughts on the story so far - comments/tumblr messages are always appreciated <3
> 
> enjoy!

The concept of a family Christmas dinner is foreign to Graves. Growing up he had no such thing — there's no time for frivolous holiday festivities with two of New York’s most sought-after lawyers for parents. They would exchange gifts, usually just wads of cash, and sometimes eat dinner together at home. He never envied the large gatherings of family and friends that he’d seen happening around him; it always seemed so _exhausting._ But now, with Credence’s youthful excitement about the holiday rubbing off on him, he’s starting to see the appeal.

He can tell Credence is nervous. They bicker over pointless things as they get ready — what he’s wearing, for one, which he simply can’t decide on.

“Anything,” Graves says, exasperated. “It doesn’t _matter_ , Credence.”

“First impressions matter! Your parents are so… I don’t know.”

“So _what_? You don’t even know them.”

Graves agreed to pick out his outfit just to get the kid to shut up. After that it was the collar, which Credence wants to wear, insisting that he’ll wear a turtleneck and keep it hidden.

“No fuckin’ way. What if they see it? I’m not having my parents think I’m some kind of bondage slave master.”

“Oh, so you’re _embarrassed_ of me.”

Now that they’ve settled that one, it’s the makeup. No matter how much Graves cakes onto the Credence's face, he still whines that the bruises are visible.

“Credence, you can’t see them at all,” he says impatiently as Credence inspects his face and neck closely in the mirror, eyebrows pinched together. “You look fine.” 

Graves is a little offended; he thinks he did a great job for someone who's never even heard of half the products he used. Credence is obviously just acting out because of his anxiety about the night, though, so he lets it go.

He finally stops complaining and gets dressed in the outfit Graves lays out for him on the bed. His nicest black chinos, a black leather belt and his favourite sweater, crew-neck and deep red. Graves wets his hands and pats down the boy’s hair, tucking a few loose curls behind his ears. Kisses the tip of his nose. “There. You look perfect.”

Up until now, he's managed to avoid mentioning to Credence that this is going to be a bit more than a small dinner with his parents. That should make it _better,_ really, because an intimate tête-à-tête with his self-righteous father and avoidant mother is not exactly enticing. But he knows that Credence is going to be completely fucking terrified when he finds out that they're about to be swarmed by his rich, pretentious relatives, most of whom he hasn't seen in years and years. 

"Listen, Cre..."

Credence gives him a look. Graves only calls him that when he's vying for something; Credence isn't stupid.

"So, for God knows what reason, my parents chose this of all years to have the giant family Christmas party that we've never had before." It all comes out in a rush of air and Credence pales slightly.

"How many people?"

Graves winces. "Uh. I don't know, exactly. Could be twenty, could be fifty. Depends."

"Depends on _what?_ "

"Depends how many aunties my parents have pissed off this year, I guess," Graves mutters. He grips Credence's shoulders and looks him in the eyes. "Look. I know we're treating this like it's an apocalyptic battle and it may fuckin' well be. But the moment you need to get out of there, you just signal me and I'll make an excuse. Tell 'em I've got the stomach flu or something. Okay?"

Credence smirks. "Should I safe-word?"

Graves laughs and squeezes his shoulder. "Yeah, do that. God knows you might need it."

It’s a forty minute drive to his parents’ place: a frankly hedonistic mansion, completely unnecessary for two people, especially two people who spend ninety percent of their time at the office. That’s the sort of people they are, though — if they can indulge, they will. He takes note of the look on Credence’s face as he pulls into the long driveway, sinking deeper and deeper into apprehension, verging on real panic when he sees the long line of expensive cars parked along the curb.

Graves puts the car in park and rests a hand on the boy’s knee. “Don’t worry, puppy. It’s gonna be fine. My parents are honestly pretty normal. They made me, remember? They aren’t _that_ sophisticated. And everyone else... I mean, who the fuck cares. I don't.”

The words do next to nothing to ease Credence’s worry. They walk up the front steps, Graves’ hand on his back, and ring the doorbell.

His mother answers, rosy-faced and business casual, blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun. She pulls Graves in for a long hug. She smells the same as she always has. 

“Hey, Mom,” he murmurs. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” she says, her voice as warm and smooth as ever. “This must be Credence!”

“Hi, Mrs Graves.” He goes to shake her hand but she laughs and hugs him as well.

“Call me Cecilia,” she tells him, beckoning them inside where there's already a low hum of voices, classical Christmas music on the stereo, the clinking of glasses. “Come on in, dinner is almost ready. I’ll get you two a drink.”

They have a cook, of course, they’re far too wealthy to even _consider_ preparing their own holiday dinner. Graves wonders absently about the cook’s family, where they are tonight. Who’s making their dinner.

Cecilia hands them two glasses of red wine. “Your father is in the living room. I’m going to go freshen up.”

The moment they step further inside they're ambushed by a woman with hair dyed a deep blood-red, piled on her head, botox tightening her severe features. It takes a moment for Graves to recognize her.

"Hi, Aunt Lucille."

"Oh, the nerve on you!" She smacks him in the arm but pulls him in for an uncomfortably tight hug. "Never calling, never coming around... Merry Christmas, Percival. What are you doing with yourself these days?"

"Well, my band's doing pretty well. We've been touring and recording and all that." He quickly takes Credence's hand. "This is Credence, my partner."

Her spindly eyebrows raise minutely but she recovers herself. "Well, hello, Credence. Are you in the  _band_ as well?"

Graves has a childish urge to pull up their royalty statements from this month, just to throw that dismissive tone back in her drawn-on face. He keeps his cool, though, squeezing Credence's hand. 

"Yes, ma'am, it's nice to meet you."

"Oh, isn't he  _cute_!" She crows. "How old is he, Percival?"

He lets his eyes close in irritation for one brief moment. As if Credence is a show-and-tell prop, a doll on display for all these bored and nosy housewives to poke and prod. As if he doesn't have ears, or a fucking brain for that matter.

"Credence is turning twenty one next month."

"So  _young_ ," she says, giving Graves a knowing look.

"We'd better go find my father," he says, and then turns on his heel and drags Credence along with him.

"I'm so sorry," he says under his breath, leaning in close to the boy's reddened cheek. "Please, give me the signal if you want to leave."

"It's okay," Credence murmurs, hand tightening in Graves' own. And then he tilts his head up, giving him a little smile. "I'm your _partner_."

Graves chuckles. "Do you not like that term?"

"No, it's good. It just sounds funny."

Graves leads him by the hand through the halls and into the living room. They're stopped by three more people on their way, suffering through essentially the same conversation each time. Credence holds himself well, answering questions and shaking hands with all of the grace that Graves has always lacked when dealing with these people.

Graves’ father is standing beside their seven-foot Christmas tree, a glass of scotch in hand, talking loudly with a group of people, only two of whom Graves recognizes as his uncles. “Percival! How was your drive?”

“Not too bad. Nobody’s out on the roads right now. Hey, everyone."

The men all shake his hand and make bland comments about the weather and the dismal state of New York's plowing system. Graves tunes out the voices until his father speaks again.  “And who’s this?”

He clenches his jaw. His father knows exactly who  _this_ is. “This is Credence. My boyfriend.”

Credence offers his hand and his father shakes it. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Nice to meet you too. Frederick, by the way. You’re in the band as well?”

“Um. Yeah, yeah I am.” Credence’s eyes dart quickly to Graves, almost unnoticeable, but Graves recognizes his anxiety instantly, letting his hand return to the small of his back.

“Credence is a prodigy,” he says, “Best guitarist I’ve ever met. I’ve never heard anybody play like he does.”

“Hm.” Frederick considers him for a moment. “You’ll have to play for us sometime, I suppose.”

The other men nod their agreement and launch into a conversation about how they were at Woodstock in '69, and they'll be damned if it wasn't overrated, all those dope-head rock stars —

Graves is relieved when his mother appears in the doorway. “Dinner is ready!”

The dining room is massive — or, Graves should say, the second dining room. There are two, of course, because why have only one dining room? The first is reserved for small family dinners, which they rarely have. The second is reserved for large dinner parties, which, if his parents _do_ host them, Graves hasn't been invited to. It's filled by two long, ornate wooden tables, seating at least forty people, probably more. Credence looks dazed when they enter and Graves keeps a hand on his back.

"Fuckin' ridiculous, huh."

"It's... nice?" Credence offers. "It's very big."

They sit together at the end of one table, where Frederick takes the head and Cecilia sits across from them. The room is already loud, everybody well into their third, maybe fourth glass of wine or whiskey, verging on every dangerous conversational territory. The moment they get into politics, Graves is throwing Credence over his shoulder and carrying him out the door.

Cecilia bombards him with a ceaseless line of questioning, Frederick throwing in stray interjections every once in a while. Credence speaks only when directly spoken to. Graves wonders what past family dinners had been like for the boy. Old habits die hard.

His mother addresses Credence fairly often, asking him about school and his writing and his favourite pieces to play. He warms up after a while, nervous in the beginning but growing more talkative throughout dinner. Frederick watches carefully. Graves feels a twisting in his gut at the expression on his face.

His father has never been outwardly bothered by his relationships with men, though he’s never really had a _relationship_ to speak of. He dated girls in high school, brought a few of them home. Later on he had affairs with men that he’d mentioned but never paraded in his father’s face. He can tell Frederick is uncomfortable. It makes Graves want to scream.

_Don’t you_ see _him? Just look at him! He’s beautiful, he’s brilliant, he’s so smart and kind and talented. How could you possibly want anybody else for me?_

“So, the two of you are living together in Manhattan?”

It’s the first question his father asks, and Credence pauses with his fork raised halfway to his mouth.

“Yes,” Graves says, “We have been for over a year now.”

“Same apartment, Percival?”

“Yes, father. I like that one.”

“Do you go home often, Credence?” Cecilia asks.

The boy opens his mouth but Graves speaks first.

“His home is with me,” he snaps. “We live together. In our apartment. That is our home.”

A few aunts glance over in the wake of his little outburst. Cecilia looks taken aback. “I just wondered if he ever goes back to the church.”

“My mother isn’t very pleased with the path I’ve chosen,” Credence says carefully, glancing at Graves. “She wasn’t happy to see me last time I went back.”

Cecilia frowns. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, honey.” She perks up, looking back and forth between Graves and his father. “Well, we would love to have you here any time you’d like!”

She’s trying, at least. Graves finds Credence’s foot beneath the table with his own and strokes it. Small comfort.

“How about your father, Credence?”

Graves has to resist the urge to cover his face with his hands at the sound of Frederick’s voice. He can feel Credence tense beside him.

“I don’t… I didn’t grow up with a father, sir.”

Skipping over any apologies or regrets, which he likely considers a waste of time and breath, Frederick just nods. “And how old are you?”

“He’s twenty,” Graves says, exasperated. “Do you want to put him on the stand after dinner? Jesus.”

“Percival,” his mother scolds, and Credence nudges him in a silent _it’s okay._ But it isn’t okay. Graves is pissed, although he could have predicted this. He did, really, and still he dragged Credence into the pit of fucking lions.

“Quite young,” Frederick comments. “Must be difficult for a young man to grow up without a father.”

“I never knew any different, sir,” Credence says plainly, and Graves makes a mental note to ravish him later, to do whatever he wants, to praise and reward him for the way he keeps his voice steady, the way he doesn’t crumble under Frederick’s cool line of questioning.

“It may affect you in ways you don’t realize.” Frederick shoots a meaningful look toward Graves, who pointedly doesn’t return it.

"Frederick, I think—"

"Cecilia," his father says in a warning tone, and she shuts her mouth. Credence gives Graves a wide-eyed look. He stares resolutely forward.

After dinner, it takes about forty minutes to say his goodbyes to everyone. Credence stands dutifully by his side, quiet but polite, hugging and shaking hands with all these stuck-up fuckers who look down on him. Graves' shoulders sag with relief when the last pair — aunt and uncle? Great aunt and uncle? — bid them goodbye and step out the door. Cecilia hugs Credence long and tight before they leave. Frederick shakes his hand again, as well as Graves’. Just as Graves is about to turn down the steps he hesitates and hands Credence the car keys.

 “Baby, can you wait for me in the car for a second?”

He goes, and Graves calls out after his father’s retreating form. He stops on the porch. 

“This isn’t serious, is it?” Frederick asks, an air of dismissal clear in his voice.

“What do you mean?” Graves tries to keep his voice from shaking. He feels himself regressing into the frustrated child of his past, no way to win against his firm-voiced sanctimonious father.

“This little thing,” he waves his hand in the air. “With this boy.”

Graves laughs, disbelieving. “Yes, father, it’s serious. We’re living together. And his name is Credence, not _this boy._ ”

“He’s a child, Percival. I thought better of you.”

“He’s almost twenty one.”

“He clearly sees you as some kind of _paternal_ figure, it’s frankly rather uncomfortable when—”

“It’s only uncomfortable to you, _father_ ,” Graves shoots back, voice trembling, clenching his fists to keep himself from blowing up. “I’m sorry you’re so prejudiced, and I’m sorry it upsets you to see me happy with somebody you don’t approve of, but you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You have ample potential to create a real family, leave some kind of legacy. It’s a shame to waste that.”

Graves’ head spins. “Are you fucking kidding me? Being with the person I love isn’t a waste. It would be a waste to let that go and pursue the fuckin’ carbon family you want from me. Maybe you should have had another kid if I’m such a disappointment.”

Frederick looks at him sternly. “Percival.”

Graves shakes his head. “No. I’m not doing this. I came back here to tell you that if you have a problem with my relationship, I’ll gladly keep it away from you. Along with the rest of my life.”

He turns on his heel, back to the car. Credence looks up when he gets in, wide-eyed, concerned.

“What ha—”

Graves grabs his face, kisses him slow and deep, cradling the boy’s cheek. Credence sighs against him, lets himself be taken.

“I love you, Credence.”

“I love you too.”

Graves pulls out of the long, winding driveway and gets back on the road, back toward Manhattan, back toward home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i like this chapter heheh
> 
>  
> 
> [also, i made this fake trailer: if gradence was a romcom. check it outttt](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/179653042845/miracle-a-gradence-romcom-trailer-what-would)

Credence's face has mostly healed by the time he returns to school after the Christmas holidays, save for a faded violet ring around his left eye — like one too many late nights, like a whiskey-warm holiday offering more celebration than sleep. His new collar rests tight against his throat, concealed beneath the neck of his button up shirt. Percy sends him off after a long hug, hesitant to let him go, concern etched into his face.

“I’ll be fine, Percy,” Credence huffs, but he secretly loves how the man worries, how he dotes on him and cares for him. Beyond that, Percy had slipped a pearl-handled folding knife into the side pocket of his bag this morning.

_If anyone comes close,_ he’d murmured, hands running down Credence’s back, the boy shivering against him. _If anyone touches you._

The thought of using it is ludicrous, but it feels nice to have Percy’s protection with him all day, carried in his bag, a clinking reminder of how much he is loved.

As he’s making an attempt to rush out the door for lunch, gearing up for a quick escape free from Vince or Greg or anyone else, really, he nearly runs head-on into Professor Moody.

“There you are, boy!” The man’s gruff voice bounces through the hall, always loud enough to demand attention from an entire room. “I’ve been lookin’ for ya.”

“Hi, Professor.” Credence says, a little breathless.

“You busy? I was just about to eat lunch in my room.”

“No, I’m not busy.”

Credence follows him to his classroom. Moody shuts the door behind them. “I’ve got extra sandwiches, boy. You look like you could use one.”

Credence flushes, tries to protest, but Moody slides a peanut butter sandwich across his desk. Credence takes a small bite.

“So you’re in my class next semester, right?”

“Yes, sir. I’m very excited.”

Moody laughs, mouth full of bread and sliced turkey. “You’re one of about six, kid. They almost cancelled it but I wouldn’t let that happen. You’re gonna graduate in May?”

Credence nods. “I’ve got all my credits after this semester.” He pauses. “I have to take Professor Snape’s class, though. He never really liked me.”

Moody’s hand waves dismissively. “Don’t worry about that slimy fuck, he doesn’t like anyone. He’ll get over it.”

“I hope so,” Credence murmurs, “As long as he doesn’t fail me, I’ll be graduating this year.”

“Good, good.” Moody gives him a mischievous look. “Now, don’t kill me. I heard some fuckers were giving you a hard time back before Christmas.”

Credence sighs. “How did you hear?”

“Don’t kill your boyfriend either. He might have emailed me.”

“How did he get your email address?” Credence says incredulously.

Moody shrugs. “Dunno. Probably went to the ends of the earth to figure out who your favourite teacher was. Anyway, I hate those fuckin’ kids. _Vincent_ and _Gregory_. Not a drop o’ talent in either of ‘em.” He shakes his head. “Now, I’m not about to go rat to McGonagall about ‘em beating on you, I know you wouldn’t want that. But I _may_ have told her about some illicit substances that I _may_ have slipped through the cracks of their lockers.”

“You _didn’t,_ ” Credence says, horrified. Enthralled.

“They’re outta here, boy,” Moody says smugly, “Expelled on the spot. Y’know how Minerva feels about drugs.”

“I don’t know if I should thank you or tell you that you’re a terrible person,” Credence admits. “I kind of want to thank you.”

“Thank me,” he advises, “Those fuckers deserved it. Your Percy told me you had a black eye for Christmas. Almost made me feel guilty for all the kids I beat up back in school.”

Credence flushes at his words. _Your Percy_. _My Percy._ “Well, thanks, Professor. I appreciate it.”

“No worries, boy. You wanna go or you wanna stay here for lunch?”

Credence stays, and the two spend the rest of the hour talking about their holidays. Moody is always rather evasive about his life outside of school — he has an unlimited supply of stories about his past as a young and unruly musician, but Credence has never heard him say a word about his current lifestyle. He asks a few nervous questions about the man’s holiday, which he answers warmly and vaguely, content to interrogate Credence instead, laughing raucously as he recounts the story of dinner at Percy’s parents’ house.

When Credence slips into the passenger seat of Percy’s car at five-fifteen he fixes the man with a well-rehearsed glare. “You emailed my professor.”

Graves laughs, holding his hands up defensively. “Sorry, puppy. Couldn’t help myself. It was that or roll up here and throw fists with some college kids.”

Credence rolls his eyes, trying and failing to hold back his smile. “Well they’re expelled, so good job.”

“A tragedy. How was your first day back?” Percy pulls out of the parking lot, turning onto the long county road leading into the city. He keeps one hand on the wheel and one hand on Credence’s knee, rubbing slow circles with his thumb. Credence sighs.

“Good,” he mumbles, “One week til exams. Then my new classes start.”

“You’re halfway done. I’m so proud of you.”

Credence smiles to himself, settling back into his seat, watching out the window as the city whips past, a snowy pastel blur of lights in the early evening dark.

 

——

 

Credence’s birthday falls on a Monday. It’s not ideal, because he has to go to school early the next morning, but Percy takes him out anyway with Newt and Tina. They go early enough that he won’t be up all night, though one look at the little smirk on Percy’s face tells him that he will be anyway. Resigned to being exhausted in the morning, he accepts every gifted drink, forcing himself to eat slowly when he’s presented with each decadent plate from the way-too-expensive restaurant Percy reserved.

They get home just before ten, tipsy and giggling, Percy doing a ridiculous impression of the burly bartender at the first place they went to, who’d denied every piece of ID Credence handed over. 

“ _You,_ " Credence says in a mock-accusatory voice, poking a finger into Percy’s chest, “have been buying me drinks illegally for two years now. And I can’t even buy one for myself now that I’m legal.”

“Cause you look like a baby, baby,” Percy replies with a grin, pushing him lazily into bed with one hand. “Lil’ Cre. Lil’ Credie.”

“ _Credie,_ ” Credence says, horrified, “Credence is bad enough, Jesus, you—” he hiccups and giggles under Percy’s hand. “Don’t make it even _worse_.”

“I love your name,” Percy murmurs, kissing along his jawline. “It’s beautiful and it’s soft and it means something lovely. It’s perfect. Credence. _Credence_."

“I like it when you say it,” Credence mumbles, tipping his head back, bearing his throat to Percy. “You say it like it’s worth so much more.”

“You’re worth more than any-fuckin’-thing.” Percy grins, accentuating each syllable with a pinch to Credence’s cheek. “Listen, pup. You’re so cute. Lemme ask you something.”

“Mhm?” Credence stretches out in bed, languid and long, back arching. 

“You’re twenty one now, a real adult, a real _man_.” His voice takes on a low growl and Credence laughs, slapping at his chest as he climbs up overtop of him. “I’m gonna give you a choice, and it’s up to you. But it’s real special, for your birthday an’ all.”

“What is it, Percy?” Credence whines impatiently. He’s already getting hard, just having Percy this close to him. He lifts his hips incrementally, trying in vain to get even a brush of contact.

“I’m gonna let you fuck me. If you want to.”

Credence is stunned. They’ve never talked about it, not really — they've skirted around the topic, speaking in abstractions and hypotheticals: Credence asking Percy if he’s always the one who _gives_ , though he knows the answer even before it’s spoken. Percy asking Credence if he liked having sex with Luna, Credence moaning back, _it felt so good, being inside something, it felt so good…_

“Percy,” he swallows, “If you don’t… I—”

“I want to,” Percy says firmly, cutting him off. “I want to give this to you, Credence. I want you to have everything. Every part of me.”

“I don’t…” Credence whimpers when Percy drops his hips and he feels the man’s hardness against his own, brushing lightly through their clothes. “Can you show me?”

“Yes,” Percy breathes, mouth moving to Credence’s neck, “Yes, baby.”

When they're undressed, Percy slicks up Credence's fingers and guides them down between his legs, down where Credence has never touched. Like everywhere else, Percy has more hair here than him, especially now that Credence is always shaved bare. Percy is warm and the muscle jumps when Credence’s hesitant fingers push against it.

“Sorry,” he whispers, and Percy laughs.

“It’s okay, baby, you’re doing so good.”

Credence takes a breath and slips one finger inside, up to the second knuckle, feeling the warm clench engulfing him. Percy lets out a rattling breath.

“Have you ever—”

“Yes, just. Just on my own.”

“Oh.” Credence’s face burns. “Do I…”

“Curl your finger,” Percy instructs, “Up. Towards yourself.”

Credence bites his lip and does, curling experimentally, and his finger brushes against something soft and spongey. Percy’s breath hitches and his hips lift. “ _Yes._ There.”

His own dick is impossibly hard at the sight of the man falling apart under his hands like this. He tentatively pushes another finger in with the first, the tight heat burning around him, curling both fingers until Percy groans, low and deep in his throat. He feels the phantom pleasure deep in his own body, the ghost of every time Percy has laid him out and fingered him slow and deep, making him cum without a single touch anywhere else on his trembling body. He bites back a moan at the thought.

After a few moments, Percy gasping and rolling his hips, the man gulps out, “Spread. Spread your fingers. You have to… stretch.”

“Right.” Credence does his best to follow the order, pulling his fingers apart in a scissoring motion, but it’s difficult against the tight muscle. He moves his fingers in slow circles, finally feeling Percy start to open around his hand. He manages to get a third finger inside, spreading them apart, and Percy moans. 

“ _Credence._ ”

“Is it good?” He whispers, feeling the stark embarrassment of inexperience. 

“It’s good, puppy,” Percy says, eyes closed, head tipped back. “Are you ready?”

Credence doesn’t know if he'll ever feel ready. His body certainly is, though, his dick straining up against his belly, a spiderweb string of precum connecting the tip to his navel, gleaming bright in the moonlight that streams in through the window. He takes hold of himself at the base, feeling suddenly uneasy. What if he does it wrong?

“C’mon, baby,” Percy coaxes him, his legs spread wide. Credence braves a quick glance downward, where Percy's opening is dark pink and slick. Looking at it feels exciting and _wrong_ , like he's seeing something he shouldn't be, like he's fifteen again and walking home from school, passing by the shop where the windows are adorned with bright and garish photographs of half-naked women, shelves lined with shiny toys that Credence could only dare to imagine a use for —  

It fills him with a sinful sort of adrenaline, granting him enough courage to keep going. Credence lowers himself down until they’re chest to chest, kissing Percy slow and deep on the mouth. And then he guides the head of his dick to where the man opens for him, hot and wet and waiting.

And God, it’s more beautiful than anything he’s ever felt. It had burned him with pleasure to be inside Luna, even constrained by a thin plastic barrier, but this — this is raw, this is dark and sacrilegious and Credence’s eyes roll with the pleasure of it. He sinks in slowly, faintly hearing Percy gasping beneath him, both of his hands braced on the man’s chest. 

“ _Oh…_ ” he whimpers as he seats himself fully, deeply inside of Percy. He stays there for a moment, not moving, feeling the rhythmic clenching around him, the slick sweet warmth, his dick already begging for release. He doesn’t think he’ll last very long. It feels too good. His arms tremble with the effort of holding his top half up, looming over Percy, his head bowed. He stays motionless until he hears Percy hissing.

“Credence, _move._ ”

He starts, coming back to himself, pushing himself up clumsily and mumbling a _sorry_ before pulling out halfway and then pushing back in. It takes a few minutes to find his rhythm, Percy praising and soothing him with soft words and gentle touches all over his chest and shoulders and face. His breath rasps out of his mouth and every sound from Percy makes the spring in his belly clutch tighter.

He’s smaller than Percy, he knows that. Percy is so big, so long and thick that Credence is always shocked when he isn’t split straight down the middle when Percy is inside of him. Credence is smaller, thin and smooth, but he’s never felt ashamed. Percy wouldn’t let him. He always praises Credence’s cock as he pulls on it, fitting all but the head in his curled palm, telling him what a good and pretty boy he is.

“Feels so good, puppy,” Percy gasps as Credence angles upward, nudging the man's prostate. Credence tries to go faster but his body betrays him and he lurches forward, coming hard, eyes rolling, bottom lip dropping. He let’s out a stream of _fuckfuckfucksorry_ but Percy hushes him, kissing him hard. Credence reaches down clumsily and grabs Percy’s cock, stroking it and continuing to thrust inside of him as best he can, though he’s rapidly softening. Percy comes all over Credence’s hand and his own chest, tongue deep in Credence’s mouth, panting. 

Credence collapses onto him gracelessly. “Oh my _god._ ”

Percy chuckles. “You like it, baby?”

“So good,” is all Credence can manage, breathless and awed. “So good.”

“Happy birthday,” Percy murmurs, wrapping his arms loosely around Credence’s back. Their sweat mixes into a medley of fevered sweetness between their bodies. Credence sighs contentedly.

“So I’m… I’m the first—”

“Yes,” Percy breathes, “You’re the first.”

“Oh,” Credence says, and he feels rather pleased with himself.

“Look at you, all smug,” Percy teases, squeezing him tighter. “I should fuck you right now just to take you down a notch.”

“Hm, wish you would,” Credence mumbles, nuzzling at Percy’s arm, wriggling his ass into the man’s groin. 

“Jesus, don't you ever get tired?” Percy says, but his hand on Credence’s hip is affectionate, holding him still. “I feel like an old man compared to you. I don’t have your stamina.”

Credence scoffs. “What stamina? I can barely keep it together for thirty seconds.”

“Oh shush, you’ve been doing so well. It’s your first time fucking someone, of course you’re gonna get excited.”

“Second time,” Credence reminds him.

“First time without a condom. So the first time that counts.”

Credence smirks. “I feel like that goes against absolutely everything that you should be teaching me.”

“I’m not your fuckin’ father.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

Percy makes a disbelieving sound but kisses the back of his neck, settling in against his back. “Goodnight, puppy. Happy birthday.”

Credence is already drifting off, a little mumbled _night_ the last thing Percy hears as he closes his eyes, resting one hand on the boy’s warm chest, feeling the gentle beat of his heart, one year longer in this world, one more trip around the Sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i needed credence to clumsily top percy at least once in this series!
> 
>  
> 
> [come talk to me on tumblr!!](http://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here, have some angst and some smut - with some intense daddy kink <3

With the beginning of the new semester comes a significant increase in Credence's schoolwork. Graves is relieved to know he has a refuge three times a week in Professor Moody’s class, although that doesn’t seem to do much to calm the boy's stress. He carries himself differently, almost like he's regressing to the form Graves first knew: shoulders hunched, body tense, eyes red-rimmed and circled in violet from lack of sleep. By the time April floats in on clouds of steady rain, in the weeks leading up to finals, he’s staying late at school every day; sometimes night has fallen by the time Graves makes the trip over to pick him up. He always mumbles apologies as he slips into the passenger seat, eyes half closed already, and Graves carries him to bed when they get home.

“Percy?” He asks softly one night as Graves is getting undressed. He’s already tucked Credence into bed, all but forcing his pencil from his hand so he’ll stop working and finally get some sleep.

“Yes, baby?” Graves tosses his shirt into the hamper and slips in beside him, sitting back against the headboard and letting the Credence's head rest against his side.

“Can you tell me the truth about something?”

“Yeah, anything.”

“Am I stupid?”

His voice is so small, so sad and young that it breaks Graves’ heart. He pulls Credence closer to him, though the boy won’t look up to meet his eyes.

“You are so far from stupid, Credence,” he says firmly, “I tell you that all the time. Why don’t you believe me?”

“You’re the only person who says that. Everyone else thinks I’m dumb.” Credence sounds a little embarrassed at his childish stubbornness, the whining tone to his voice. He clears his throat quietly. “You have to say it because you’re my boyfriend.”

“Is that what I am?” Graves says in a teasing tone, squeezing Credence’s side. “Puppy, what’re you talking about? You know you aren’t stupid. Come on.”

“I read so slow,” Credence says, frustration rising in his voice. “And there’s so many things that I… that I don’t _know._ You and Newt and Tina just know all these things, and I don’t know how, but I don’t know them, and—"

“Like what?”

“I don’t know!” Credence whines, “That’s the point.”

“Settle _down,_ baby,” Graves says, stricken with disbelief. “What’s got you so worked up? You know plenty. You write better songs than anyone I've ever met. You’re about to get a degree from the most prestigious fuckin’ music academy in the country. So what if it takes you a little longer to read a book? You probably get more out of it than most people, anyway.”

“You don’t talk to me the way you talk to your friends,” Credence says, and it sounds like he’s trying really hard to keep his voice steady.

“Yeah, cause I’m not living with and fucking my friends.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Credence sighs, turning onto his side to curl into Graves’ body. “Never mind.”

“No, I want to talk about this.” Graves frowns. “You’re kind of freaking me out, baby. What’s going on?”

“I want to be your baby,” Credence says softly, “and I want you to take care of me, but I also… I also want to be an adult, and I want you to talk to me the way you’d talk to anyone else. Because I have things to say too.” He buries his face in Graves’ chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

They lay in silence for a moment, Credence’s face tucked into Graves' body, Graves staring at the ceiling in thought. Finally, Credence speaks again.

“There’s just this… this professor. I had him before and I have him this semester. He just hates me. I don’t know why.” His voice cracks a little and Graves holds him tighter. “He always picks on me, calls me out in front of everyone. He thinks I’m stupid. He makes me read passages out loud that he knows I can’t read. He knows I… I don’t know the words.” 

“Who is it?” Graves’ heart has leapt into his throat immediately, anger thrumming in his blood. He’ll drive right up to that fuckin’ school, he’ll walk right into that professor’s office and — 

“Please don’t do anything,” Credence begs, and Graves lets out a slow breath. The kid knows him too well, that much is clear. “It's just a few more months and then I don’t have to see him anymore. He teaches in the music history department. He made me read from a passage in the textbook today and I couldn’t read some of the words and everyone was kind of laughing and—”

His voice has gone a little hysterical, his breath coming out too fast, and Graves shushes him. “Shh, baby, calm down. It’s okay.”

Credence breathes for a moment. “And then he said it’s a wonder I managed to sign a record contract when I don’t even know how to read.”

Graves feels like he’s on fire. He clenches his fist where it rests against Credence’s back and feels the boy flinch. “Credence, I swear to God, I—”

“He’s right, though.” Credence’s voice is flat. “I didn’t read it. You read it for me.”

“You didn’t need to read it, it was all just technical shit, it doesn’t matter, it—“

“It does, though,” Credence insists, “It matters to me.”

“You want me to go get the contract? You want to read it now? It’ll put you right to sleep, it’s so fucking boring.”

“Not the point,” Credence mumbles. 

“I don’t think I’m clear on what the point is.”

“Never mind.” Credence rolls over and gets out of bed, stalking out of the room and shutting the door behind him. Graves lays back and closes his eyes, breathing out for ten. Fuck. He doesn’t have the patience to deal with this properly, however the proper way to deal with it is. Credence is smart, but he’s fragile, and it doesn’t take much to send him spiralling into self-doubt and insecurity. This professor must see that. Graves has half a mind to send another email to Moody, have him devise one of his little schemes and get this guy fired, too.

He gives it a few minutes and then goes out into the living room where Credence is curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped around him, half-open eyes staring blankly.

Graves leaves him be, and instead goes to the kitchen and makes two mugs of hot cocoa. One he spikes with leftover coffee, the other he tops with far too much whipped cream, throwing some chocolate chips on there for good measure. He sets it down on the coffee table in front of Credence without a word, nudging the boy’s feet over so he can sit at the end of the couch. Credence looks at it for a moment and then shifts up to sit, gingerly reaching out for the drink. 

“Thank you,” he says softly. Graves grins and wipes the little puff of whipped cream from above his lip.

“So you want me to kill this guy, or what?”

“No,” Credence says, horrified, “Percy, I want you to leave it alone. Let me handle it.”

“You know it’s because I love you, right? It’s not because I think you’re stupid, or a baby, or that you can’t handle yourself. I can’t help it. I just want to murder anyone who hurts you.”

“It’s a little over the top,” Credence smirks, “But I appreciate it. I just don’t want to seem like I can’t stand up for myself. I’m already way too deep in the spotlight in that place, I don’t need anything to make them focus on me even more.”

“Little celebrity,” Graves says fondly, pulling Credence’s cold feet into his lap and rubbing them with a strong grip. Credence squirms and hums happily, eyes fluttering shut. “Promise me you won’t take any shit. Not from him, not from anyone.”

Credence makes a soft sound of agreement and Graves can tell he’s ready to drift off at any given moment. He pulls the boy into his arms and stands up, making an exaggerated groaning sound. “I guess now that you’re an adult you’re too heavy for me to carry to bed.”

“ _Nnnh,_ ” Credence whines in protest, voice blurry with sleep. “Not too heavy.”

“No,” Graves agrees, holding Credence tight against his chest, looking fondly at the boy's soft and weary face. “Not for me.”

 

— —

 

Graves feels a little tug of trepidation when he sends Credence off to school the next day. He stays parked at the curb for longer than usual, watching Credence hurry up the steps and into the building. They left the house a little late today — it’s Graves’ birthday, and Credence woke him up with breakfast in bed paired with a pretty exceptional blowjob. By the time they were cleaned up and ready to go, Graves had to speed the whole way just to get him there on time.

Now he can’t stop thinking about their conversation last night. He really doesn’t think he treats Credence differently from everybody else, but maybe his perception is warped. Credence is seven years younger than him and sometimes the power imbalance they carry is very obvious. Maybe they don’t talk openly enough. But Graves doesn’t think he’s ever made Credence feel _stupid._

He does his best to push it out of his mind. Tonight they’re going out to dinner, a quiet and sweet affair, just the two of them. Although he firmly said no gifts, he knows Credence is up to something. He’s been sneaking around the past week or so, running out on secretive solo shopping trips and hiding things in his drawers. Graves plays along and doesn’t snoop. After the way they’d celebrated Credence’s twenty first birthday, he’s certain he’s in for something tonight.

And God, if he’d known.

They get pleasantly tipsy at dinner and take a cab home just after nine o’clock, Credence’s fingers walking across the seat and up Graves’ thigh, the boy’s head rested against his shoulder, watching him with a little smile. Graves laughs and stares out the window. Twenty-fucking-eight. Never really thought he’d live this long, and now he feels old as hell.

When they get home, Credence instructs him to stay in the chair by the window, and Graves complies, watching reverently as the boy’s long and languid form retreats into the bedroom. Whatever Credence has got in store, he’s here for it. Fuck, the kid could come out dressed as a dog and Graves would happily fold him over the couch and fuck him all night.

“You ready?” Credence’s voice calls from the bedroom.

Graves chuckles. “I hope so.”

When Credence steps out of the bedroom, Graves’ mouth drops open. He can’t even speak, he just _stares_ like a teenager seeing his first porn clip on the internet, like a fuckin’ creep at a strip club, ogling the boy silently. Credence smirks but quickly wipes it off his face, turning back to the practiced, wide-eyed innocence.

“I did all my homework, Daddy.”

Graves just gapes. From head to toe, Credence is made up like the image of a school-boy fantasy, his dark hair combed back, a white button up tucked neatly into plaid shorts, deep blue and green, a black belt buckled tight around his skinny waist. His white socks are tugged up just below his knees. Dress shoes laced in tight little bows. His tie, plaid and matching his shorts, is tied perfectly beneath the collar of his shirt. Graves can see the glint of the metal loop on his collar, pressed into his pale throat.

Credence stands in the doorway, meeting Graves’ eyes with an expertly coy expression.

“Credence…” he breathes, and for a second Credence’s face shows the smallest flash of uncertainty, as if he thinks that maybe this isn’t what Graves had wanted. If only he knew. “Get your sweet little ass over here. Daddy’s had a long day.”

Credence’s eyes brighten and he skips happily over to the chair and into Graves’ lap, straddling him, and Graves can smell boyish cologne, a hint of coconut shampoo. He runs his fingers through Credence’s combed-back hair and the boy closes his eyes, tilting his head back, face going blissful as Graves' hands rake through his hair, scratching at his sweet little head. 

"Feels good," Credence mumbles, mouth falling open when Graves' fingertips trail over the sensitive skin just above his ears.

“How on earth did I get you,” Graves murmurs, letting his hands drop to run down the length of Credence’s front, over his tie and the buttons of his shirt, reaching his belt and giving the buckle a little tug. “You little miracle. God, you’re fuckin’ beautiful.”

“Daddy,” Credence says shyly, squirming in his lap.

“You stay still, puppy. Don’t make me spank you.”

“Mm,” Credence hums, “Please.”

“Oh, you want me to?” Graves challenges. In a second, he’s got Credence flipped and thrown across his lap, arms folded over the arm of the chair, round little ass perking up in the tight shorts. Graves rubs and squeezes at it, watching hungrily as Credence makes quick and meager movements of his hips, trying to surreptitiously rub into Graves’ lap. “Greedy little boy.”

Credence mewls and Graves gives him one hard slap, making him jolt. He moves his hips quicker, tiny abortive movements against Graves’ thigh, panting into his arm. Graves tugs his hips up with one hand, taking away the contact, and Credence whines in protest.

“You be patient, puppy,” he murmurs, rubbing his ass before smacking again, and again, hard and unrelenting as Credence gasps and bucks in his lap. Before long he’s whining for Graves to fuck him, so easily undone, and Graves has a hard time denying him _anything_ when he’s folded over his lap in this little outfit, his voice breaking so sweetly.

“Okay, baby,” he says, “Okay.”

He lifts Credence easily into his arms and carries him into the bedroom, laying him out on his back. 

“Kiss me,” Credence begs, “Please kiss me.”

Graves does, leaning over him and capturing his soft and damp lips, so sweet and pink, letting Credence guide the kiss, hungry and open-mouthed, young and immature and needy. They kiss until their lips are red and swollen and Credence is panting, staring up at him with his eyes glazed over, tie askew, neck turning pink with heat under his collar. He reaches to unbutton it but Graves swats his hands away.

“ _Oh_ no,” he grins, “You’re keeping this on, puppy.”

He sits back against the headboard and pulls Credence into his lap, straddling him like he’d done on the chair, their hands intertwined. It’s all kinds of sweet, if you ignore Graves’ absolutely depraved thoughts and the obvious line of Credence’s dick, hard and straining against his tight little shorts.

“What am I going to do with you,” he murmurs, looking Credence up and down, from his pleading and glossy eyes to his bony knees, the pink imprint where his socks dig into soft flesh.

“You could fuck me,” Credence suggests, and Graves holds back a laugh.

“Oh yeah? Is that what you want?”

He nods fervently. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Fuck.” Graves groans, lifting his hips to encourage Credence to grind against him. He does, eagerly, rubbing down into Graves’ lap, gasping and trying to stay upright. “You ever taken a cock, baby?”

Credence falls easily into the role play. “No, Daddy,” he says, sounding nervous. “Can you show me?”

“Mm,” Graves hums and urges Credence downward until his head is in his lap. “You’re going to take my cock in your pretty little mouth. Okay?”

Credence nods happily and mouths at him through his pants, looking up with his round eyes, teasing playfully. Graves smiles at him and he gets to work undoing Graves’ pants, unzipping them and tugging down his underwear until his cock springs free, thick and hard and red with wanting. Credence stares.

“It’s so big,” he says, voice still a little slurred from his three vodka sodas. “What if it doesn’t fit?”

“I’ll make it fit,” Graves says darkly, and then he takes a handful of Credence’s soft hair and pushes him down. Credence sputters a little at the sudden intrusion, Graves making him take it deeper and deeper until Credence swallows him down and Graves moans at the feeling of the boy’s throat contracting around him. Credence sucks hard, pulls off and licks from root to tip, mouthing and suckling at the head. “Oh _fuck,_ baby…”

Graves lets him suck for a while longer before tugging him upwards. “You’re gonna ride Daddy’s cock, okay, baby?”

“Mmmokay,” Credence breathes, slack-jawed and covered in saliva and precum from his lips to his chin, letting Graves tug down his shorts and wriggling out of them. He isn’t wearing underwear. Graves groans at the sight of his dick curving up towards his belly, dripping already, pink and needy. 

“Get the lube, sweetheart,” he says, and Credence crawls over to the bedside table, reaching in for the little bottle. Graves slicks up his fingers and pulls Credence back into his lap, reaching behind him and slipping one finger in. Credence sighs softly and reaches for his cock but Graves bats his hand away. “Not yet.”

Credence whines, forehead creasing, bouncing a little on Graves’ finger. He adds another, curling up, pressing into the boy’s prostate and making him moan. “You like it when Daddy fingers you, baby?”

“Uh-huh,” Credence whimpers, “More, please.”

Graves chuckles, adding a third finger, spreading him open. “So greedy.” He jams his fingers hard into Credence’s ass and the boy moans, rocking clumsily into him, obediently keeping his hands off of his desperately hard dick. His eyes roll when Graves gets his pinky in there, not holding back, pushing into him deep, and Credence is too far gone to blush at the squelching sounds of his ass, open and wet.

“Daddy, daddy, _nnnnh—_ ” Credence comes in thick spurts all over the front of Graves’ shirt but he doesn’t even give a fuck because the sight of the boy, entirely undone, is enough to drive him insane. He grabs Credence roughly by the hips and sits him down on his cock, bottoming out in one long thrust, Credence crying out as Graves completely disregards his oversensitivity.

“Ride Daddy’s cock,” Graves mutters, “Come on, baby.”

Credence looks a little embarrassed but he does, bracing his hands on Graves’ chest, his tie askew, heat rising along his pale throat as he bounces jerkily in his lap, sobbing as Graves’ thick cock abuses his sensitive prostate, his softened dick twitching with each movement.

“So good, puppy,” Graves murmurs, holding Credence’s hips steady. “So good, so tight, my sweet little boy.”

Credence makes a strangled noise at that, mouth opened in what could be pleasure or shock, maybe both. His dick is getting hard again, and he begs Graves, _please Daddy, please can I touch myself…_

Graves guides Credence’s trembling hand to his dick, and Credence sighs in relief at being given permission. Graves takes over, holding his thighs and fucking up into him hard as Credence jerks himself clumsily, head bowed. He comes again, silently, shuddering, just as Graves lets go deep inside of his boy, one choked breath escaping him as he pulses within Credence’s fluttering hole.

Credence gingerly lifts his hips and Graves falls out of him. He winces as cum and lube start to leak out in a steady stream down his thighs.

Graves pulls him down onto his sweaty chest, hands fumbling to get the poor boy’s tie and shirt off so that he can stop suffocating in the restrictive outfit. And then Credence collapses onto Graves' body, hands searching for his face, stroking his cheek clumsily.

“God, baby,” Graves mumbles, “How’d I ever get you.”

"Picked me up on the playground." Credence sighs, yawning loudly, and Graves squeezes his side.

"Not funny."

"You think I'm funny."

"Hmph. Sometimes."

"'S enough for me."

Credence's voice is trailing off into sleep but Graves feels very, very awake. He watches fondly as the boy's eyelids twitch, lips falling open as he slowly drifts away, quick and easy like a kitten. One more month and he'll be finished school. They'll be back on tour, back in the lightning-fast routine that makes sense, that feels  _right._ Langdon already has their next leg of shows booked; they'll be dipping into Canada for a few of them — Graves makes a mental note to take Credence to get a passport. 

One year from now, they'll have been on three tours, maybe four. They'll have a full length record out, their faces having graced the pages of Rolling Stone, Fader, Mojo, Billboard, and possibly even Vanity Fair — Langdon's been working on scoring that one for a while. Credence will have a degree, and Newt and Tina will likely be married. It all feels very far away, but somehow at the same time so close, in-your-face like Times Square, like the neon signs of strip clubs in the seedy underbelly of his neighbourhood. He feels like he's been standing very still and watching Credence grow, a beautiful bloom from a tiny and unassuming seed. And it's okay. He's happy, really, and so proud. But — 

But. 

It will take time, he tells himself, to see his own progress. To see that he isn't really so stagnant, he isn't just a landmark in Credence's life.  _This is where I joined a band. This is where I lost my virginity. This is where I fell in love. Now, let's move on..._

__He wants to be everything all at once. He's never really had that problem — a lack in ambition, that was always his diagnosis, his father's distracted grunt after another failed exam. He's always had a one track mind, content with playing music, a simple life, and anything else that comes of it is just background noise. When it comes to Credence, though, he wants it all. He wants to surround and envelope him, to hold him close and keep him contained. He's so beyond human, so foreign, so alien from anything Graves has ever known. The kid hadn't even watched a _movie_ when Graves met him. How far he's come now, and the knowledge that Graves fostered this growth entirely...

Graves doesn't want to simply be a lighthouse for Credence, blinking in the night, guiding his way home. He wants to be the dark sea around him, the keeper of his fate, the waves that soothe and crash and drown, for better or for worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... percy is starting to be at least a little self aware about his feelings? although he doesn't realize they are ~potentially damaging~
> 
> all is well for now...
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> second last chapter!! thank you all for sticking with me <3

Credence is late. In all of his indulgent laziness, his too-long make out sessions in Percy’s car, his last minute panics on his way into the building, he’s never been late. If it was Moody’s class first period he wouldn’t even worry, not in the slightest, but it’s not.

Professor Snape doesn’t take well to Credence’s transgressions. He doesn’t take well to Credence at all.

He’s sick, head stuffed full of a cold that’s got his nose running and his eyes watering. He hasn’t been ill since before moving in with Percy. Back when he lived with Ma, he was sick all the time. He was always cold and hungry, and Ma made him go out in the rain and snow in a ratty old jacket any time she needed something. He used to get the flu six times a year. Now that he lives with Percy, he’s been consistently healthy for the first time in his life.

But this morning he woke up with a headache and dried snot above his lip. Percy laughed at him, just a little, and got him a box of tissues to blow his nose. He moaned his way through breakfast, huddled in a thick sweater, sipping tea and eating food that all just tasted like dry toast. He’d almost considered not going to school, but he’s got a lot of work to do. The semester is almost over.

Now, he races down the hall, careening around the corner and nearly running into someone — _fuck, fucking move, asshole — sorry, sorry —_ and his apologies trail behind him like a gust of wind as he slides to a stop outside of the door to the Music History room. He takes a split second to steady himself: sweater, straightened; hair, brushed back. He winces when the door squeaks open, revealing the silent room.

“You’ve decided to join us today, Mr Barebone?” Snape continues before he can respond. “Looks like you have no qualms about interrupting. Which part of your utterly fascinating life is more important than our class this time?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I—”

“Go speak to McGonagall. I’d like an excuse pass.”

Credence’s face burns. This isn’t _high school._ He’s never seen anybody sent to McGonagall for an excuse pass before. Snape just hates him.

“Okay, sir.” He shuts the door silently behind him and heads back down the hall, much more slowly this time. He pulls out his phone to text Percy.

 

_This professor hates me. He’s making me go see the head of the school for an excuse slip._

_What the fuck? You aren’t in high school. And you’re sick. Who cares if you’re late. Go back there and tell him to go fuck himself._

_Ha-ha. Right. I can totally see me doing that._

 

He blinks away the tears that are burning at his eyes. Humiliating. A fucking baby.

 

_Are you okay?_

 

He chews on his lip, staring at the screen for a few seconds. He could ask Percy to come pick him up and he’d be out of this place immediately. He could go home, be wrapped up in Percy’s arms where he’s safe and comfortable, not go back to class. Not go back to the professor who hates him. But he needs a good mark. He needs to finish this semester.

 

_Yeah. I’m okay._

_Okay. I love you. Let me know if you need anything._

_I love you too._

 

He sniffles, wiping his runny nose on his sleeve. Gross.

The door to McGonagall’s office is heavy and wooden and Credence feels dread settle in the pit of his stomach as he knocks. His knuckles make an embarrassingly weak sound against the intimidating door. He likes McGonagall, he always has — but he’s never been to see her for any misdeeds, as trivial as they may be. After a moment, the door opens.

“Credence. Can I help you with something?”

She looks prim and proper as always, dressed in a sleek pantsuit, her grey hair pulled up in a neat bun. She gives him a wavering smile. He’s suddenly all too aware of his drab and shapeless sweater, his red-rimmed eyes, his dripping nose.

“I’m sorry to bother you, um. Professor Snape sent me to get an excuse slip. I was late.”

She looks confused. “An excuse slip?”

“He hates me,” Credence sighs, and then immediately tenses. “I’m sorry.” _Why? Why did you say that? Shut up, shut —_

He expects to be reprimanded but instead she gives him a soft laugh. “Oh, Credence. Come on in. I’ll write you a thorough excuse slip. Are you ill?” 

He nods, catching himself before he can wipe his nose on his sleeve again. “Do you have any tissues?”

She passes him a box and gestures to the chair in front of her desk. He sits, huddling into himself, blowing his nose into one tissue and immediately grabbing a second one.

“You know you can stay home when you’re unwell, Credence.” She looks amused. He flushes.

“Oh. Um, yeah. I just have a lot of work to do. I want to make sure I graduate on time.”

“You’re top of your class,” she tells him gently. “You have very impressive marks. You can afford to miss a day or two. Of course, I suppose I shouldn’t be saying these things, as head of the school.” He could swear she _winks_ at him, but maybe he’s just imagining it in his delirium. She takes a seat at her desk and straightens some papers. “Now, what shall we write on your excuse slip?”

He looks up at her. “Um. I was late because I’m sick. I was a little slow getting ready. It’s a long drive here, and I — I just wasn’t ready on time.”

“Do you drive yourself here?”

He shakes his head, looking back down at his hands. “My… my boyfriend drives me.”

She nods, scribbling something down on a notepad in front of her. “I’m writing that you are very ill and you called to inform me of this. I told you it was okay to be late for Professor Snape’s class, and that if he takes issue with that, he’s more than welcome to discuss that with me. But you are to be excused and this is not to affect your grades for today or any other day.”

He gapes at her. “Thank you, I— thank you.”

She smiles warmly and passes over the slip of paper. “Now, why do you think Professor Snape isn’t fond of you?

Credence shrugs. He’s not about to snitch on Snape, to divulge his petty bullying and snide remarks. It’s more humiliating for him, anyway. What’s he going to say, _He makes fun of me because I’m 21 and I can’t read?_ “I don’t know.”

“Severus — Professor Snape, rather… he’s an interesting man. Have you taken his classes before?”

“Once, back in second year. He didn’t like me then, either.”

“I don’t think he dislikes you, Credence.” She seems to catch his look of disbelief. “Really. Can I tell you a little secret? It must stay between us, of course.”

He nods slowly. This all feels like a very strange dream, like any second he’s going to wake up curled into Percy, dripping snot on his chest, having slept through a full day of classes.

“Professor Snape was nearly a rock star, just like you.” He ducks his head to hide his grin at her use of the term. “I don’t know if you’ve heard him play, but he is a very talented man. A guitarist and a singer. Now, he had a record set to be released on a very large label. A deal of over one million dollars, I believe. But he became careless. He was young, about your age. He fell in love with a woman who was very beautiful but very troubled. He started drinking, doing drugs, ignoring his responsibilities. He failed to meet the label’s deadlines and his record was never released. He lost his chance at a career before it had even begun.”

“I didn’t know,” Credence says softly. “I never… I never even knew he played his own music.”

“He is a bit of a hard-ass now, isn’t he.” McGonagall smiles knowingly. “I think he likes you, Credence. I think he likes you more than any other student, and that’s why he’s hard on you. He doesn’t want you to end up the way he did. We’ve seen a lot of musicians who really had a chance here, who end up falling by the wayside.”

“He bullies me,” Credence says, and then looks up. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

“We’ll keep each other’s secrets,” she agrees. “But I'd appreciate if you told me what's going on.”

“He… he makes me read things that he knows…” He clears his throat. “That he knows I can’t read. I _can_ read,” he tells her quickly, “I mean, I know how to read. But not as well as everyone else.” McGonagall knows a bit about his home situation, about Ma. He couldn’t really keep it a secret when she’d asked him back in first year why he showed up early and stayed until late in the evening every single day. She had never treated him with pity, and for that he was grateful. She’d simply told him he was welcome to stay until the building closed, and to let her know if he needed anything at all. She doesn’t know much, but she knows enough to understand this, at least. “I can read,” he repeats. “Not as well as everyone else, though. He just makes me feel stupid, that’s all.”

McGonagall sighs. “Of course, none of the things I’m telling you excuse Professor Snape’s behaviour. If you’d like me to say something—”

He shakes his head quickly. “No. No, please don’t.”

She gives him a strange look, but then she nods. “Okay. Give him the slip, and it should all be settled. Is there anything else you need, Credence?”

“No, that’s all. Thank you. I, um. I really appreciate it.”

When he goes to pass the box of tissues back to her, she waves a hand with a smile. He clutches it gratefully to his chest and hurries back down the hall to Snape’s room. It’s quiet when he enters once again, save for the drone of Snape’s slow lecture on the Baroque era. Everybody keeps their eyes cast down at their notebooks and laptops. Credence is surprised they aren’t taking the opportunity to leer at him.

Snape doesn’t say a word when he walks in, so he sets the slip down on the professor’s desk and takes an open seat in the back. Credence takes notes dutifully, eyes fixed on the screen, the diagrams and scanned pages tinted with the blue glow from the projector. When class is done he lingers, organizing his books, placing them neatly into his backpack. His eyes dart around, watching everybody leave. At last, only he and Snape are left in the room, and the professor is staring him down from behind his desk.

“Something you need, _Barebone_?”

He says his name harshly, like it’s something to be ashamed of. Something bitter and distasteful. Credence has spent a lifetime crushed under the weight of the name; nothing Snape says can make it any heavier.

“I wanted to thank you, Professor,” he says slowly, “for accepting my excuse slip. I’m very sorry for being late.” He sniffles, and it isn’t meant to be performative, but it comes off that way. Snape’s lip curls down.

“Illness is no excuse for disrespect.”

“I honestly wasn’t trying to be disrespectful. I’m sorry.”

Snape doesn’t say anything else; he just turns back to the textbook in front of him, effectively ignoring Credence’s continued presence. Credence coughs quietly into his hand. Snape’s eyebrows raise but he doesn’t look up.

“I heard you were a musician, sir. That you wrote music.”

Snape’s hand clenches minutely on the edge of the book. “And where did you hear that?”

“Um. Just around, you know. On the internet.” Credence still doesn’t know much about how the internet works, but he hopes the excuse makes sense. It seems like Percy can find just about anything. If Snape doesn’t believe him, he doesn’t show it, his face set in the same dismissive snarl as always. Credence continues, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I just wanted to say that, um. I think it’s really cool, and I hope you still play music. Even if you’re a teacher now. And I appreciate that you’re hard on me because I know you just want me to succeed.” He looks up hopefully, and to his surprise, Snape’s face has softened just slightly. It’s barely noticeable, but his mouth isn’t twisted so harshly and his eyes aren’t quite so narrowed.

“You are a talented musician, Barebone,” he says, and the hateful tone is gone when he says his name. “It would be a shame for you to lose yourself in your _fame._ ” That word gets a nasty delivery, but Credence tries not to take it personally. “You may think your future is set, but it’s anything but. You have to continue to work and to be diligent. It’s easy to lose everything. I certainly did.”

Credence’s eyes widen at the man’s casual disclosure of his past. “Do you not like it here?”

Snape’s lips tick up in what’s almost a smile. “Would you sacrifice your current lifestyle to teach a bunch of pompous, ungrateful rich kids, Credence?”

Credence laughs softly. “Probably not, sir. They aren’t the most pleasant people.”

“No, indeed they are not.” Snape closes his book. “Aren’t you going to be late to your next class? Wouldn’t want to bother McGonagall for another excuse slip.”

The clock reads five after eleven — Moody’s class will have just started. Credence smirks. “Professor Moody won’t ask me for an excuse slip, sir. No offence, but no other professors ever have.”

Snape hums his disapproval but doesn’t tell Credence to go. Credence mills about, peering at Snape from under his hair, shifting on his feet. Snape sighs.

“Is there something you want?”

“Um, sir…”

“Spit it out, Barebone.”

“I’d like to hear about your music. You know, if you… if you don’t mind.”

Snape looks a little surprised. “Shouldn’t you be going to class?”

“I can stay a few minutes longer.”

Snape considers him for a moment and then finally he shuts his book with another long-suffering sigh. “What do you want to know?”

Credence stays until nearly lunch time as Snape tells him the story of his career, from the beginning of it all. He’d started out somewhat like Credence — born into an unhappy home, discouraged from playing anything but classical by his mother. He’d attended Ilvermorny and finished his degree by 22. By that point he was writing his own songs and gaining interest from publicists and labels who would come out to see him play at bars and venues around New York. The moment he graduated he was offered a five year recording deal with a multi-million dollar advance. His deep, scratchy voice and unique guitar style made him a perfect fit for Interscope. 

“So what happened?” Credence asks tentatively. Snape looks a little wistful.

“I met a girl. She wasn’t a musician, but she loved music. She used to come out to all my shows with her friends.”

“And you fell in love with her.”

Snape gives him a look. “You could say so, yes.”

“I know it’s hard when you’re not sure,” Credence says softly. “Not sure if they feel the same way.”

“She seemed to, for a while, and I devoted everything to her. Spent all my time and money and energy trying to… _convince_ her that she should love me. She had her own issues. Drugs and drinking and all of it. I ended up participating just to be close to her. But in the end she found someone else. And then I was alone and just fell deeper into the bad habits. I lost my chance at a record deal. Spent a few years in rehab. And then I went to teacher’s college and ended up back here, at the front of the room rather than the back row.” He gives Credence a wry smile. “You seem to be on the right path. I wouldn’t get too cocky, though.”

“I try not to, sir.”

“Good. Now, I think you should get going. You’ve only got five minutes 'til the end of this period.”

Credence winces when he checks the time and throws his bag over his shoulder. “Thanks, sir. I really appreciate it. I… I’m glad I got to talk to you.”

“You’re a good student, Credence.” 

With a smile and an awkward little wave Credence heads toward the door. Just as he’s about to step into the hallway, he turns at the sound of Snape’s voice.

“Try to remember not to let your heart speak louder than your head.”

With that, Credence runs off down the hall. 

 

— —

 

“So I talked to that professor.”

“Who? The one who’s messing with you?” Percy sounds a little alarmed as he pulls out of his parking spot. 

“Yeah. It went really well, actually. Turns out he used to be a musician. He almost got a huge record deal but then it all went south with drugs and alcohol and stuff. We talked about it and he told me he doesn’t want to see me go down the same path. That’s why he’s harder on me, I guess.”

“Still shouldn’t be calling you stupid,” Percy huffs, “And trying to humiliate you in front of the class.”

“I know,” Credence says quietly, “I know that isn’t right. But I kind of understand him more, now.”

“He probably resents that you’re everything he could have been, puppy.” Graves reaches over and ruffles his hair, tearing his eyes away from the road for a second to give Credence a playful smile. And then he has to slam on the breaks when someone cuts him off, hurling his hand against the horn. “ _Fucker!_ Sorry. Anyway, I’m glad you’re feeling better. And that you took care of it all by yourself.”

Credence rolls his eyes. “Glad I did it before you showed up one night with bloody knuckles and I end up with a substitute teacher for the rest of the semester.”

Really, Credence’s resolution with Snape couldn’t have come at a better time. He knows Snape wouldn’t have failed him — there would be no justification for that — but he’s fairly confident he’ll get a better mark now that they’re on decent terms. With the end of the semester just around the corner, he could use a boost. Although Percy keeps bemoaning how much he’s studying, telling him _you’ve got the best marks in the fuckin’ place, baby, don't kill yourself for an extra point five._ It always makes Credence laugh, thinking about how much rehearsed pressure Percy had put on him for the first eighty percent of the year, telling him he wasn't studying enough and forcing him to finish every bit of reading and homework he was assigned. Now that the end is in sight, Percy's given up on being the stern parent with high expectations.

Credence is near the top, with a 4.0 and a prospective HONOURS stamped across his certificate. But there are only a few weeks left, and he might as well do his best. 

It had been a minute away from lunch break when he’d made it to Moody’s class, panting and coughing his gross, phlegmy cough, apologizing profusely. Moody had just laughed at him and told him to go home and do some ginger shots. Credence hates missing his class, so he’d showed up at the end of the day and spent a couple hours with the professor, playing guitar and rehashing his conversation with Snape.

“Still don’t trust ‘em,” Moody had muttered. 

“Percy won’t either,” Credence had (rightfully) predicted, “But it makes me feel better, at least.” 

When they get home, Percy wraps Credence up in several blankets and plops him down on the couch.

“You stay here,” he murmurs. “Let Daddy take care of you.”

Credence scoffs and bats at him feebly with one pale, chilly hand. But he lets himself be coddled and gratefully accepts little sips of ginger tea when Percy holds a mug to his lips. The liquid is hot and sharp and feels good on his sore throat.

“Donno how I got so sick,” he mumbles, his voice thick with it. “I feel horrible.”

“At least tomorrow’s Friday,” Percy says, sitting down beside him and pulling Credence over so he’s half-sprawled in his lap and Percy can easily wrap his arms around the boy's weary form. “You don’t have to go to school and I can take care of you _a-all_ day.”

“Hmph. Sounds nice.” Credence’s face is buried in the crook of Percy’s arm. He’s very warm and comfortable right here, and he hopes Percy doesn’t try to make him move to bed. To his relief, Percy stays there, putting a movie on the TV and settling in, keeping his arms wrapped tight around him.

At some point Percy gets up and heats a can of chicken noodle soup over the stove, which Credence eats gratefully; at some point the movie ends and they put on another; at some point, the sky goes dark and Percy’s sharp features are cast in fuzzy shadows, the blue glow from the TV screen. The hours blend together and Credence doesn’t mind at all. He keeps sniffling, going to wipe his nose on his sleeve and then quickly correcting himself and reaching for a tissue instead. Sometimes he just turns his head and stares up at Percy with wide, blinking eyes, nose all pink and dripping, a watery smile, and thinks that maybe he’d like to stay here forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic was half inspired by @obscure_obscurus who wanted to see snape in the story, and half inspired by the persistent image of credence with a stuffy nose 
> 
> [talk to me!](http://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, here we are at the last chapter!! and so close to the release of FB2... 
> 
> make sure to subscribe to the series because the next part will be posted soon! thank you all for your kudos and comments, they mean the world <3 there's still a lot of good stuff coming!

Credence graduates in May. Everyone is there, Graves makes sure of it: Newt and Tina, of course, accompanied by Jacob and Queenie, who wears sunglasses and a low-brimmed hat, doing her best not to draw any attention. They’re stared at regardless, students and attendees alike recognizing them all, pointing and whispering like schoolchildren. Luna and her father meet them at the doors, and they find Langdon and Sirius already in the lobby of the banquet hall. Graves’ heart warms at the sight of everybody here to support Credence.

He’d even snuck into the boy’s phone to find Mal and Draco’s numbers, though he feels a twinge of pathetic jealousy every time he thinks about the sharp faced blond boy. But Credence would want them there, and so he invites them. They show up just as Graves and the rest of them are about to head in, dressed up nicely, Mal carrying a bouquet of daisies.

After the ceremony — where Graves will readily admit he cries real tears at the sight of Credence crossing the stage — they mingle at the reception, waiting for him to come out, and Graves looks forward to finally meeting the boy’s professors. Most of them seem just as obnoxiously elitist as Credence had described them, and Graves isn’t surprised. He has yet to meet Moody, though — he pretends not to remember, but he absolutely filed away Credence’s comment about his _hot professor_ for future reference. 

Graves has communicated with him solely through email, and his extensive scouring of Google yielded nothing but frustration and a carefully cleared search history. He pictures a tall and suave man, perfectly pressed suits, a strong grip on Credence’s shoulder as he defends and protects the boy in the halls of Ilvermorny. He’s grateful for the professor’s help, his defence of Credence, but he can’t help but hate the thought of there being another Graves within the walls of the school, another guardian and guide, another for his boy to idolize.

All the petty jealous thoughts vanish when Credence finally comes out, cap and gown gone to reveal the outfit Graves bought for him (two hundred dollars, he’d told him — it was over a thousand): a deep red button down, pressed and smooth, black dress pants that perfectly outline his ass and thighs, a classy but modern-looking jacket. He looks beautiful. His face is a little flushed and he’s grinning, eyes bright, as he hurries over. Graves picks him up and swings him around, hugging him impossibly tight.

“I’m so proud, puppy, _so_ proud.”

Credence giggles, not at all embarrassed, letting himself be lifted off the ground and spun until he’s dizzy. “That was terrifying. And relieving.” He turns and sees the rest of the group and his eyes widen. “Oh my God, you’re all here!” He falls speechless and starts hugging everyone, thanking them, and Graves can hear the little tremble in his voice. As they take their turns congratulating him, Graves scans the room carefully.

“Ya must be Percy Graves.” A gruff voice comes from behind him. He turns to see an absolutely feral looking man with untamed, stringy hair and what appears to be a very early model of a glass eye, shifting eerily in its socket. He’s wearing a suit but it doesn’t make him look any less wild; on the contrary, it only highlights the eccentricity underneath.

“Yes,” he says, a little confused. “We haven’t met. Are you a professor?”

The man lets out a raucous laugh and claps him on the shoulder. “We emailed a while back. I’m Professor Moody.”

He glances over and sees Credence’s mischievous little smirk. _That little fucker._

“Great to finally meet you,” Graves says with a grin, shaking the man’s hand, “Credence speaks very highly of you. Thanks for everything, by the way. Glad those kids got kicked out.”

“Shoulda never been let in,” Moody says, lowering his voice a little as he looks around the room, “Those talentless thugs got in on money and money alone.”

Graves feels a little hypocritical complaining about anyone coasting through life on endless disposable income, so he keeps his mouth shut on that subject. “Credence told me you used to be in a band. I’ll confess that I tried to look you up, but I didn’t find anything.”

“Ah, never went by Alastor back when I was playin’ in a band. Look up _Mad-Eye Moody,_ maybe you’ll find somethin’ interesting.”

“Hey, you never told me that!” Credence complains, hopping over to their conversation. “Now you meet Percy and you’re already telling him.”

“This is a conversation for the adults, Credence, go along and play.” Graves tries to keep his face straight but fails, pulling the boy close against his side and kissing the top of his head. “I’m so proud.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that five thousand times already,” Credence says sassily.

“I’ll give ya one of my CDs, kid,” Moody says fondly, and then taps his cane on the carpeted floor. “I’ve gotta go find a drink. You all have a good night.”

“We’re gonna go get some dinner in a bit, you’re very welcome to come,” Graves offers, and Credence nods hopefully. Moody waves a hand.

“Oh, I don’t want to intrude. I’m sure we’ll get together soon. Congratulations, Credence. Best kid I’ve ever taught.”

“Thank you, Professor. I’ll keep in touch.”

Graves turns back to where Queenie and Tina are discussing dinner options, throwing in his vote, and then Credence is tugging at his hand. He pulls Graves over to where an older woman stands, long robes flowing elegantly down her slender form, making her look almost like royalty. 

“Hi, Dr McGonagall,” he says shyly, “This is Percy Graves. My… my boyfriend.”

The woman smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that sends sparkles to her eyes and lights up her previously intimidating face. She shakes Graves’ hand, cupping it in both of her own. “I’ve seen you in the videos,” she says. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

He’s taken aback, although he probably shouldn’t be. Langdon just texted him the other day to let him know their latest video hit a million views.

“Mrs McGonagall is the president of Ilvermorny,” Credence explains. “She runs the whole school. She’s amazing.” He smiles at her brightly. “I’ll miss you.”

“You came back just to leave again,” she says, but her voice is full to the brim with affection. “Take care, Credence. I’m very proud. I’m sure you’ll continue to do great things.”

The final recital is in a different hall of the same building, scheduled for only an hour after the ceremony itself. There’s barely time enough for Credence to get changed and tune his guitar before he has to head down the small hallway to the back stage area, kissing Graves quickly on the cheek before trotting off, guitar case in hand. Graves watches his retreating form fondly, drifting off into thought until he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s go get our seats.” 

He smiles back at Tina and they file into the vast auditorium, taking up nearly a full row of velvet-lined seats near the front. The stage is daunting, but they’ve played bigger ones. He knows Credence is more nervous for tonight than any performance they’ve had before. He’ll be up there alone, without the band to fall back on.

They sit through a few performances from other graduates, which Graves views with as little bias as possible, though he still thinks _Credence is so much better_ after each piece ends. When Credence finally does come out, walking calmly and smoothly to the center of the stage, Graves’ breath leaves his lungs in a fraction of a second. 

He looks so confident and graceful, his suit clinging to the long lines of his body, his hair combed back, his high cheekbones carved out in shadows under the bright spotlight of the stage. He sits with his classical guitar and pauses for one breath before he begins.

It’s that same piece he’d been practicing back in December, the one he couldn’t get through, his fingers slipping across the frets, his expression defeated. Now his face is set in an impenetrable focus as he plays flawlessly through the gently strummed chords and fingerpicked notes — the piece was beautiful then, in his imperfect frustration, and it’s beautiful now, in his otherworldly talent, his incomparable brilliance. Graves can feel everybody in the audience holding their breath.

Nocturne in C-sharp minor. Graves had looked it up back when Credence first played it for him. Not notated for guitar, this piece was meant for piano; its intricacies are far too complex for most musicians to translate. Most.

Credence transcribed it himself, poring tirelessly over a notebook of sheet music. Graves had felt a little nudge of guilt when he came across the booklet. So often throughout the semester he would nag Credence about school, telling him he should be working harder, that he just had to get through this year and he’d be done. All the while, the boy had been working away in private to finish this piece.

And it’s beautiful.

Graves feels his eyes welling up as the music comes to an end, all too soon. The crowd erupts in applause and Credence bows, his straight, indecipherable expression cracking a little, revealing a bashful smile as he spots Graves, who’s on his feet and clapping harder than anybody.

When the recital ends, Credence is ambushed with hugs and flowers and congratulations. He’s overwhelmed, laughing and smiling and thanking everyone, a blanket of relief settling over his posture. Graves lets everyone else get to him first, content to stand back and watch proudly as the hordes of people praise and marvel over him. Credence’s eyes keep flickering over, looking to him, and he smiles reassuringly every time. When he finally gets his turn he wraps Credence gently in his arms, a stark contrast to the bounding and enthusiastic hug from earlier.

“I am so, so proud of you,” he murmurs. “You are the most incredible human being I have ever known.”

He feels Credence trembling against him and when he pulls back, the boy is crying quietly, round little tears dripping from the corners of his eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “For making me do this.”

Graves shakes his head. “I didn’t make you do anything, puppy. You did this yourself.”

Credence smiles up at him. “Can we go?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

They navigate their way through the crowds in the lobby, the rest of the group hopefully following close behind. Just as they’re approaching the door, Credence stops dead in his tracks, Graves nearly running right into him.

“Credence, what—”

Oh. 

_Oh._

“Ma,” he says, in a voice so small that Graves can hardly hear him.

But he does.

“Credence!” Modesty hops into his arms and Credence bows to hug her tight, face in her shoulder.

“I missed you so much, bug. I can’t believe you’re here.”

He lets her go and straightens up slowly, one hand tapping a nervous rhythm against his thigh. He’s shaking so badly that Graves wants to reach out and steady him. He figures that’s not the best course of action right now.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Credence repeats.

“I must say I didn’t think you’d come back to graduate.”

Credence’s mother is dressed modestly, hair tucked back, stern face softened slightly by either makeup or genuine warmth, Graves has no fucking clue.

“I’m… um. Thank you for coming, Ma.”

She doesn’t look at Graves, not for a single second. He averts his gaze, feeling suddenly like he’s intruding on a very private moment. He wants to reach out and hold Credence’s hand. He wants to kiss the top of his trembling head. He can _feel_ the silence of the rest of the group, standing in wait behind him.

When he looks back up, Ma’s hand is on Credence’s face.

On instinct, he nearly jumps forward to pull Credence away. On instinct, he sees the woman smacking him, reaching for his belt, pulling him by the collar out the door, into the church, into the cellar Credence had described, the one that had plagued Graves’ nightmares for weeks afterward…

But she isn’t hitting him. Not at all.

Her hand is cupping Credence’s cheek. He looks devastated.

“Congratulations, Credence. I’m proud of you.”

Graves’ stomach sinks. He hears the hitch in Credence’s breath. Sees the tears, silvery in the bright lights, welling up in the corners of his eyes. He can’t tear his eyes away from Credence’s cheek and the hand pressed to it. That same sharp bone, that same little hollow that he runs his hands over so often, thumb pressed to the softest spots, the way he knows Credence’s face by heart. The way he’s learned it. And her hand is just there like it’s nothing, like it’s easy for her to reach out and touch the sacred place between Credence’s jaw and his ear, the rise of his cheekbone that Graves dreams about…

And then suddenly she’s gone.

Credence doesn’t move. He stands there, staring at nothing, shoulders rising up. Shaking.

Graves moves instantly, getting in front of him, because he knows Credence is floating and he needs to ground him back in reality. He pulls the boy tight against his body, feels Credence’s nose pressing into his shoulder, hands digging into his sides.

They don’t speak. They stand there and Graves holds him and they are silent. 

Nobody pays them any attention. The room is packed with families hugging and crying — it’s not like they’re doing anything out of the ordinary. When he opens his eyes, he sees the rest of their group over Credence’s shoulder: Tina, Newt, Queenie, Jacob, Draco and Mal, all standing and watching while trying to pretend they aren’t. Langdon, Sirius, Luna and her father are likely close behind. Graves tries to shoot them all a look that says  _it's okay, don't panic, but I need a few minutes here._ He hopes it translates, although he likely just looks like he's freaking the fuck out.

Graves finally pulls back, keeping his hands firmly on Credence’s elbows. “Puppy, look at me.”

Credence does, slowly, eyes flickering up. Red-rimmed and so, so sad.

“You are brilliant. She can see that. I’m sorry she doesn’t know how to express it, and I'm sorry she never did. But everybody can see it. You should be so proud of yourself.”

“Why did she come.” It isn’t a question. His voice is soft and cracking. Graves squeezes his arms.

“C’mon, let’s go get some space.”

He pulls Credence with him down the hall, nodding back at their friends. He finds the bathroom, urging Credence inside and then glancing around before slipping in after him, locking the door in their wake.

As soon as they’re inside, it’s quiet. Credence still avoids his eyes. Graves backs him up against the door, wraps his arms around him and holds him there. A last ditch attempt; Credence’s kryptonite. Graves holds him so tightly and so fully that he can’t move, can’t do anything but _be._ After a moment, his breathing slows down and he finally looks up. Graves leans in and kisses him, slow and soft. 

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Credence blows out a breath and shakes his head. “No. Not really. Not now.” He looks up, misty-eyed. “Can we just forget about it for now? And talk about it later?”

“Okay. Let’s just take a minute and then we can go.”

Upon leaving the hall it’s a free-for-all, crowds of people swarming the steps, everybody moving in different directions. Credence clutches Graves’ arm, glancing around, looking more than a little tense. His face looks clear enough; it isn’t obvious he’s been crying. Graves knows he just wants to get the hell out of there. They’re barely out the door before they’re approached.

“Credence, can we take a picture?”

The girl is tiny and blonde and perfectly made-up, eyes shining as she looks up at Credence expectantly, holding out her phone.

“Oh, um, sure,” he mumbles, moving awkwardly to stand beside her. She leans her head against his shoulder and holds out her phone, snapping a photo, popping pink gum in her mouth. 

“Thanks!” She skips back over to her friends and Graves glares at her retreating form.

“Do you know her?” He murmurs.

“She was in one of my classes,” Credence responds quietly. “She asked me for a picture once before and I said no. She wasn’t very nice.”

She isn’t the last to approach them. It’s like all these leeches think since they’ve left the ceremony, it’s open season — students’ siblings and friends, wide-eyed and giggling, crowding around to talk to them. Someone spots Queenie and shrieks.

“Queenie! Is that you? Can I take a picture!”

And suddenly it’s a complete shitshow and Graves wishes he had a fucking megaphone so he could blast all these people away. Langdon is walking in front of them, trying to part the crowd like fucking Moses in the Red Sea, yelling into his phone at whichever driver he’s trying to summon to get them out of here immediately. Credence looks entirely overwhelmed. This was supposed to be his special day, not a fucking meet and greet. After what just happened — the absolute _worst_ case scenario, in Graves’ mind — Credence needs nothing more than to go home and be wrapped up and held until he’s ready to talk, and then to spend a long fucking time figuring it all out. But now they’re standing here helplessly amongst a clamor of _Credence! Take a photo with me! Newt, oh my God, can you sign this? Queenie! When’s your new album coming out?_

“ _Enough!_ ”

Graves spins at the shout that comes from behind him. 

The man it came from is tall and stony-faced, greasy black hair falling straight down to his chin, a severe expression fixed on the crowd. It quiets to a low murmur, people looking positively frightened.

“This is ridiculous. I am ashamed that students of Ilvermorny are behaving this way. These are human beings and they are trying to leave. The way you’re all acting right now is embarrassing. I’d suggest you return to your cars _immediately_ and leave them alone.”

“Professor Snape,” Credence whispers, staring at the man in shock, frozen in place.

There’s a beat, a moment of stillness, and then the crowd is bustling again, people mostly ignoring them as they make their way down the steps and to the city street.

“Tasteless,” the professor mutters.

“Thank you,” Credence says, looking at him reverently. “You — wow. They’re really scared of you.”

The man smirks. “Well, it’s good for something, I suppose.”

Credence seems to break out of his trance, quickly turning to Graves. “Percy, this is Professor Snape. Professor, this is Percy, my boyfriend — he’s in the band, too.”

“Ah yes, I’ve seen the videos.”

_Jesus, are they projecting them in the auditorium here?_

“It’s nice to meet you,” Graves says, still a little wary. No matter how much Credence will preach forgiveness, justifying the way Snape treated him in class, it still doesn’t change the fact that he was straight up  _mean._ “Thanks, you know, for getting rid of the parasites.”

“Percy,” Credence says softly. “They’re fine.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too.” Snape shakes his hand and then turns to Credence. “Congratulations. I’m sure you’ll go far. Remember what I told you.”

Credence gives Snape a secretive little smile, pressing two fingers to his forehead and then to his chest, right over his heart. “I’ll remember.”

Snape turns away. Credence’s hand still rests against his heart and Graves covers it with his own. “Sweetheart.”

Credence smiles up at him. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Come on, let’s go.”

“No, I don’t want it at _seven,_ I need it now!” Langdon is still shouting over the phone, and Graves puts a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s fine, Langdon. We’ve got our cars here. I think everyone’s gonna leave us alone after that.”

The irate man hangs up, shaking his head. “Jesus _fuck._ Sorry about that. Congratulations, Credence, you were great. I’ll see you guys on Thursday for that meeting.”

He leaves, Sirius behind him, grinning and silently mimicking him screaming over the phone before waving goodbye.

“We have news,” Tina quips as they head to their cars. “Next summer. No big wedding. Just you two, us two, Queenie and Jacob, Newt’s parents and Theseus. We’re going to do it in Europe, and you’d better believe your asses are gonna get on a plane and come watch us get married.”

“You had me at Europe,” Graves tells her. “I’ll see if we can make it to the wedding, though.”

Tina smacks him and then launches into a detailed plan for the week they’re going to spend at the Scamanders’ secluded beach house, ending in a small wedding on the shores of Sussex. Graves’ eyes keep wandering over to Credence, who’s standing tall again, just like he’d been on stage, his shoulders back and his chin high. Confident and poised in the wake of his performance, despite the not-so-minor ordeal in the lobby. Graves reaches over and weaves their fingers together, feeling Credence’s hand squeeze his own a little. The thought of a week on a remote beach in England with his boy is not an unwelcoming thought in the slightest.

“Sex on the beach?” Credence whispers to him, low and conspiratorial, as if he’s reading Graves’ mind.

Graves smirks at him, their fingers intertwined, their shoulders bumping together every once in a while as they walk through the parking lot to his car.

“Count me in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL. we'll have to see how the future plays out for poor lil credence and overprotective daddy graves. thanks for sticking with me, more soon <3
> 
> [come talk to me on tumblr!](http://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com)


End file.
